World Without End, Amen
by StarfallAraj
Summary: The final battle takes place, leaving Sam and Dean separated, perhaps for the very last time, as the forces of Heaven and Hell push for the final conflict. DEATHFIC! Enjoy!
1. Despair clad in unbroken silence

**CHAPTER 1: Despair clad in unbroken silence**

God was beautiful.  
Even as he sat there, his entire world broken in the worst possible way, his mind rappelling between so many disparate thoughts, he realized this. But it was no comfort. Not even a little.

Dark musings clouded everything. The tears flowed freely, and seemed to go unnoticed by this unearthly form that Dean Winchester knew was, for the moment, a living, breathing form for God. It wasn't a vessel. There was no way anything this immaculate, this _divine_, could be a vessel, not even one inhabited by the Creator himself. Why would God need a vessel? He was... God.

Dean Winchester was _done_. He was absolutely exhausted, to a level he had not even considered possible in his wildest dreams. After-effects from playing angelic prophylactic for Michael, he supposed. It should have been worse, and he wondered why it wasn't. Maybe that feather-light yet utterly, _utterly_ invasive and incredible touch to his forehead, courtesy of God, had something to do with that. A soft, hysterical little snicker ripped through him. In 32 years of life, _now_ God does something for him. Did the Big Man recognize the irony?

The snicker went as quickly as it came. Dean blinked slowly, vision swimming with a planet-sized ocean of tears interfering again. He didn't care. He didn't. There was no awe, no rapture, no nothing, as his mind kept reminding him that he, above practically all other human beings – and possibly one of the only existing, _aware_ human beings on the Earth – was in the presence of God, and knew it. The awesomeness was lost on him, because Sam wasn't here to see it with him. After everything, Dean was alone. Again.

_Again._

He looked down. He was seated on the ground, the dirt blasted to rapidly cooling slivers of glass in places. The epicentre of the last, fateful dual. Heaven versus Hell, brother against brother. Final Showdown, check. Apocalypse averted? Check. A beloved dead brother held in a close, resolute embrace, fuelled by absolute emotional decimation. Check. He looked down and blinked, clearing his vision once more. Sam looked peaceful, now that Dean had closed his eyes and smoothed back Sam's ever-wayward hair. Sam always did, when he was out like this. Well, not exactly like this. Dean unceremoniously crushed every possible thought that might take him to the dark place that he could always identify in his head as _Cold Oaks_, or the feeling of that place, and what it had done in the Winchesters' lives.

Sam looked all too much like he had as a kid growing up, before the nightmares launched him on his ill-fated downward spiral, into the void of despair and destruction that Lucifer had planned. Right after the Stanford era, when Jess had died and Sam had gone from innocent, naive, blindly idealistic bleeding heart – a young man, almost a kid still, that Dean can hardly remember, except fondly and feverishly, in the worst of times – to being a revenge-driven, efficient and unfeelingly ruthless hunter. Through Azazel, then Lilith, then Ruby. Hindsight was the biggest bitch, always was. To let such a plan go through the motions, and still succeed, was a humbling realization for a human being. Even to one that had been earmarked for 'greatness'... as an archangel's vessel.

Quivering fingers reverently pushed a single stray strand of Sam's hair from his forehead. One teardrop graced the smooth forehead – _so unlike the blood, dripping from the ceiling so long ago – _followed by another, and Dean looked up, sniffing tragically, defiant of showing emotion even now, even before the one being in existence who had possibly seen it all, and more. Old habits die hard, even under the pressure of total oblivion, requested, _demanded_, if not yet granted. Dean didn't want to see it, suddenly. All of a sudden, the weight was unbearable, to the points where even looking at Sam, at his lifelong reason for existing, and happily, made him want to get up and run into traffic, get run over by an eighteen-wheeler. _Good luck with that, this latest 'little' pissing contest probably stalled traffic across the entire Northern Hemisphere,_ a thought presented. He sighed instead, a juddering gesture that seemed to rip from his chest like wind through a tunnel. Eyes shut, then opened slowly. He needed to take it in, take it all in. Because he knew that God would not settle for simply staring at him. God was waiting for Dean to speak. Dean thought he knew what God would say. And Dean didn't want to hear it. He couldn't. Instead, the final conflict began replaying itself again, insisting he look at everything, forcing him to relive it. For 'old' time's sake.

*

He had said it. That dreaded, _hateful _word.

"_Will you consent?"  
How could he not? There, surrounded by a host of angels, not attacking yet but holding the demonic hordes – they had possessed _an entire city_ for this, and killed those who resisted – at bay, stood Lucifer. Tall, proud, _arrogant_. Surveying everything around him with clear indifference, a truly haughty little sneer on his face. _Sam's face_. Even at this distance, standing atop a relatively undamaged skyscraper, looking down at a shorter building's rooftop, Dean could see every detail, etched on his brother's face, Lucifer using Sam's very essence. But not the eyes. No, the eyes were clouded by... a void. Gentle, shimmering hues of green, blue and hazel, warped by the undeniable presence of the dark evil that Lucifer embodied. Not immediately present, no. No horns, no tail, no trident, none of that. In a far-off corner of his mind, Dean knew that evil shouldn't actually be allowed to look so... inviting. _Sympathetic._ Dean loathed it, even as his mind screamed. Why had Sam said yes? What could possibly have made him do it? Hadn't Dean given _everything_ to make sure it didn't go down? Had Sam been lying to him all this time? After getting zapped to friggin' future by Zachariah, and realizing that Sam was lost without his older brother, watching him with love and understanding rather than mistrust and revulsion, how, after everything, had it _still_ come to this? How had Lucifer been right? _

You won't win this time, you smug, arrogant prick, _Dean had thought. Everything was lost. The world. The war. Sammy... Dean wondered if, were he to trump the Devil, mostly out of spite, and assuredly out of pure, heart wrenching horror and grief, if Sammy's soul was intact. Was Sam in there still? Was he... remorseful, about his choice? Dean never truly could understand the deepest pits of Sammy's mind, even after practically raising the kid. And there was no time for him to wallow in recriminations and what-ifs. He realized it almost instantly, and the realization was driven home when he heard, even above the din, the flutter of wings behind him. He knew whom he would find, waiting, impatient, annoyed as hell..._

"_This is it, Dean. No more tricks, no more denials, no more _bull_!" the florid-faced angel riled, his bald pate moving rapidly under the furrows of angelic fury, barely contained by the vessel. Yup, Zach was pissed, with a capital, uppercase 'P'. Dean didn't give the smarmy bastard the satisfaction of turning around. Zach sighed, irritable. His voice came closer, and Dean wondered how the angel could be so...blasé, when clearly his voice was ready to melt the flesh from Dean's body. "We can end this, here, _now_, but we need Michael. Give us our general, Dean!" the last sentence was delivered as a command, as though Dean was somehow keeping Michael at bay, or imprisoned somehow. 'You've got him, so give him back!' Dean smiled, a wan, weary, saddened little motion that touched only his mouth and softened his eyes in defeat. Zachariah's petulance would have made him laugh, at any other time, but the truth was... what? That it would always be this way? That the Colt, on which he, Sam and so many others had pinned so much hope on, would never have worked against Lucifer? That the Devil himself, the personified receptacle of that which most all human beings considered the epitome of evil, could actually be brought low by an awesome gun? Thinking on it, Dean realized that killing Lucifer with the Colt was about as plausible as shooting God in the face with a peashooter. It wasn't so much a matter of the Colt actually working, but rather, actually getting close enough to even try. The Colt rested coolly against Dean's lower back, tucked in behind the lining of his jeans. He could take the shot, if he could convince Zach or any other high-powered über-angel to bring him in close. Maybe Sam's body would die, and Lucifer would be forced to abandon his tactics until another suitable vessel could be found. He reached behind his back, his fingers slowly curving around the well-remembered gun._

_And Dean would be alone. Again. This time forever. If the Colt could kill anything, supposedly, what were the odds of one human soul actually surviving that ensorcelled shot? Dean knew, suddenly, instantly, why he couldn't do it. _

"You won't say 'yes' to Michael, and you won't kill Sam," _Lucifer had said to him, more than a year ago, and also three years from now, in that other future. Right about one thing, you pretentious sonuvabitch! Dean snarled in his mind. His hand left the Colt, pulling back as if burned. He knew what was playing out on his face. It was a stone mask, a deadpan expression that somehow conveyed every shred of emotion through the eyes. Slowly he turned around to face Zachariah, taking in the angel's belligerent stance, his scrunched-up, enraged face. Dean laughed, hell, he _hooted_ like a lunatic inside his own skull! Zach was actually expecting resistance, as per usual, even at the bitterest of ends. Time to prove two dicks wrong with one word._

"Yes,"_ Dean uttered, voice as taut as a wire, gravelly enough to actually be painful. He didn't care._

"_I beg your pardon?" Zachariah asked, the anger vanishing behind puzzlement._

"_You heard me," Dean grated, angry all on his own. For betraying everything he believed about the sanctity of human free will, and accepting a destiny he never wanted. For sacrificing Sammy so that he could save the world before it really was too late, before Lucifer ran riot, before the Croatoan virus was unleashed, before... everything could go wrong, for one last time. Sacrificing Sammy... Even as he prepared to tear Zach a new one for being hard of hearing, tears started leaking from his eyes. Even the thought... he wanted to drop to his knees, scream and retch his denial. But it was too late. It was...over. "You want me to spell it out for you?" _

_A slow, almost enrapt smile, devoid of malice and hidden agendas, was not what Dean had expected from the angel. Zachariah's smile was radiant, almost... what was that word? Beatific! – thanks Sammy, one last jab of geekiness to friggin' light up the day! Dean was even more shocked when Zach gave a single step forward. _

"_Thank you," the angel said softly, and vanished right in front of Dean's eyes._

"_When Michael gets here, I'm _so_ reaming your puckered ass for everything!" Dean cussed to the relative silence that surrounded him once more. Where was that damn archangel? On the rooftop of the wide flat building, where angels were surrounding Lucifer – _not Sam_ – and demons were milling about below, itching to tear into the heavenly host assembled around their 'Father', silence still reigned. What were they waiting for? _

"For you to prove him wrong," _a voice echoed suddenly inside Dean's head. Oh crap. "Not quite... crap," the voice said, and chuckled. Chuckled! Dean didn't waste time analyzing the voice, how it sounded or resonated; he knew who it was. _

"_Just get it over with already!" Dean snapped impatiently to the air. Vegetative state, here I come, he thought. It would probably be too much to imagine that Michael's presence would kill Dean, after the archangel left his body behind. For him to die and know nothing more, to not... feel like he's about to fail the single most important person in his life, and fail everything he'd been taught since he could understand. _

"_You will not fail," Michael's voice whispered softly once more. _

"_I already did," Dean retorted, his voice heavy as it broke around the admission. "Please, just... get it over with."_

"_As you wish," Michael replied. Almost as simple as Dean saying 'yes'. Where was the panache, the flair? How about 'here we go?'_

_No bright, engulfing light, no massive outpouring of actinic, angelic radiance and destruction, marked Michael's descent. Soft, so soft it went unnoticed by the assembled below. Stealthy. _

_And just like that, Dean Winchester faded into the background. His hand was lifted to his face, testing the new trappings for the single most powerful warrior of Heaven. Then the hand dropped to Michael's side, and out of nowhere, a lustrous short sword, very similar to Lucifer's, extended into existence. Thus armed, the archangel Michael launched himself from the rooftop of the skyscraper, at the adversary below. _


	2. Four brothers

**CHAPTER 2: Four brothers**

_Michael was standing in front of Lucifer._

_Both of them had their swords out, both of them quietly waiting for the other to make the first move. Around them, angels squared off against demons, some of which were weak – mere meat shields – while other, more powerful hell-borne beings held their own in one-on-one melee combat. None of them came close to the two beings, facing each other in the dead centre of the rooftop. No words were needed. No explanation was forthcoming. All that could possibly have been said had been done even before mankind realized it had an entire world to populate, to nurture. This was simple: kill or be killed. Familial ties had been severed so long ago that no one would ever mistake these two archangels for brothers. Divine fire from above flared against the tumult of demonic flames, ripped straight from unnoticed rents in the earth below, roaring from the nearly abandoned torments of Hell. _

_Without warning, both archangels launched themselves at each other. The initial clash of blade on blade sent a shockwave of catastrophic proportions resounding across the overcast sky, and nearly all the lesser demons, even the lower hierarchies of angels surrounding the epicentre of the struggle, were flung from the rooftop. Only the others, the more powerful ones, remained, not oblivious, but resolute in killing off each other before another wave could strip them of their tenuous hold, to where they were fighting, or to their vessels. _

_Between Michael and Lucifer, a titanic struggle was winnowed down to a fluid, almost loving dance of absolute, unstoppable force. Both opponents were immaculately skilled, practically impossible to defeat, and had never gotten rusty, despite not having done this for thousands of years. Michael fought for the sanctity of this world, to ease the bone-tiredness of running the planet in the absence of his Father. To bring on the promised paradise that would see unprecedented peace descend on a world nearly destroyed after millennia of suffering. Lucifer fought to remain here, anchored in this world, to reshape it according to his own whims. To make law what he felt, regarding the hairless little apes, and God's edict that first saw him expelled from Heaven._

"_Just like old times," Michael said, as the two parted for a moment. Lucifer smirked, just that tiny little upwards curve of one side of the mouth. _

"_The last time this happened," Lucifer stated in his slow, empathetic drawl, "you caught me off guard." Lucifer's shoulders shifted at an angle, his sword hand ready in front of his body. "How certain are you that you can actually beat me, this time?"_

_In answer, Michael renewed the dance, blade weaving, the actual edges so infinitesimally sharp despite the blade's rounded appearance that the air whined as it was sliced apart on a molecular level. Lucifer's sword danced as swiftly, bent irrevocably to its master's will, wielded with every intention of staying the hand of the Judge of the Field, and the return to the Cage. For what seemed like a separate eternity, the battle continued, with neither one of the two archangels gaining a clear upper hand. With inhuman grace riding human form, their bodies danced through separate innuendos of power play, one side aimed at justification and the renewal of the world, the other at the total annihilation of the grand design emplaced at the very first moment of creation. Around them, there were no more demons, no more angels. They were blasted to oblivion, or swept away by the maelstrom of madness that surrounded every single blow levelled between Michael and Lucifer. Each swipe, each slice and parry sent reverberations through the ground, causing far-off earthquakes ranging between limited shudders to full-blown, earth-shattering eruptions. Nothing was spared, despite the already devastated cityscape that paid silent homage to the place where it could all end. _

_And then the unthinkable happened._

_The sky tore open as Michael and Lucifer locked blade and arms, faces showing no strain, eyes burning with righteousness and wrath. Michael broke the deadlock, summoning the strength which had always set him above and beyond the trappings of power his brethren shared, elevated him to be the fearful destroyer of all that dared contest the Will of Heaven. One left-handed punch that could have thrown a cruise liner into the next oceanic body rocketed into Lucifer's jaw. To him, the Adversary, the Serpent, it was practically meaningless. It was a very, _very_ slight distraction. But it was enough. _

_Michael's sword found its opening, slicing past near-impregnable defences and finding its mark in Lucifer's right side. Hissing suddenly, an all too human show of emotion from something that had never truly tasted physical pain, the Devil retaliated, if only to get his irredeemably estranged brother away from him. Michael flew through the air, his body already assuming a stance, in midair, to land softly on his feet, with just the barest flexing at the knees. He faced Lucifer, who was clutching his injured side. Brilliant red blood flowed through long fingers clutched over the wound, the spotless white suit now marred. Lucifer looked at Michael, and for the first time, something other than indifference and contempt flitted across his face. It was an eloquent, unremitting, undeniable vision of something that spelled disaster for the Adversary. It was fear._

_But most of all, it was shock. The kind born of betrayal, in every sense of the word, multiplied millions of times over. The emotional overload, of delving so easily into his vessel's mannerisms, radiated as a feeling which Lucifer thought he was beyond feeling. This was his vessel's greatest fear, attuned and parallel to Lucifer's own unacknowledged, unanswered question. In that moment, Lucifer's eyes screamed only one thing:_

WHY?

_Michael did not deign to answer. Instead, two more presences flitted into being behind him. Lightning flared as two more archangels manifested, appearing from whatever far-flung edges of the battlefield they had been at. Raphael, his vessel's face radiating an almost smug satisfaction. Gabriel, whose golden-haired host seemed simultaneously aloof and reproving. Their swords were out, and judging by the way the blades shimmered and flickered around the edges, they were fresh from killing, the demonically-tainted blood of slain vessels and destroyed demons relegating one last spurt of enraged defiance as it burned into nothingness._

"_You knew it would come to this. You should have known there would be no hope," Michael announced. "Not for you." Lucifer sneered._

"_So certain that _this_," Lucifer nodded down at his wounded side, "is enough to stop me from my victory?"_

"_You cannot fight all of us," Gabriel returned, his voice melodious, unearthly. _

"_Give up," Raphael intoned, more stoic, if in no way less elegant in pronunciation. _

"_And you would take credit for what I set in motion?" Lucifer snarled. Despite the apparent grievousness of his injury, he refused to release any hold on pride, to let his vessel's body slump in any way._

"_You simply played your part, like we knew you would," Gabriel said. "We allowed you to be freed, so we could drive your filth into the dust and lock you away before paradise comes."_

"_Why would you not see sense? Had Hell done nothing but fuel this ill-fated crusade against our Father's will?" Raphael queried, voice heating up now with conviction. A blatant, soft-spoken thrill of contempt that would have rent reason from even the most resistant of human minds. Lucifer simply stared as if he were having to deal with a troublesome child about to throw a tantrum._

"Our_ Father? _How can He be my father when despite the greatest of loves I held for Him, He cast me aside at a moment's notice?" _Rage answered Raphael's contempt, and even that mighty archangel had to take a slight step backwards against Lucifer's fury. "Because I would not bow, would not relinquish my love for Him in favour of these _disgusting apes!"_ No one answered his query. "And where is He now? How can _you_ three possibly hope to bring about paradise without His hands at the wheel?" Lucifer accentuated his challenge with a bark of laughter. "Your interference, and lack thereof, led to this world being like this in the first place!"_

"_And you think you can do better?" There was no mistaking the imminent threat of damning danger flaring from Michael's question. "You profess love, yet you throw _our_ mistakes at our feet? Pride..."_

"_Enough of this!" Lucifer snapped, face transformed into a horrid mask of wrath. "Where is He?" He was met with silence, and his laughter suddenly boomed across the rooftop. He actually leaned forward, maintaining eye contact as hilarity flowed through him. "Oh, that's right, I forgot, He's no longer around. Didn't _you_ say that, _brother?"_ Lucifer spat at Raphael. "He's dead! He left! Come now, even you three can see what leaving these mud-monkeys in charge has done to the last perfect handiwork of _your_ Father!"_

"_You blaspheme," Gabriel said softly._

"_And you _lie!_" Lucifer retorted gleefully. "It's a sin, you know."_

"_We are done here," Michael said, and took a step towards Lucifer, sword in hand rising. Lucifer stood his ground._

"_No, we are not. Not by a long shot. You cannot send me back."_

"_We can, and we will," Raphael intoned, stance strong and resolute once again._

"_You don't have His power flowing through you. Your collective angelic host's power feeds you, makes you strong, but you cannot banish me. Not if your entire host was assembled here, now!" Lucifer qualified. "Not without Him." _

_The three loyal archangels remained where they stood, with Michael still ready to strike. No one made a move, and Lucifer, actually breathing heavily, grinned as he saw victory approaching._

"_Come, bring Him to me. I demand to speak to Him, to be judged! Not by you, _pretender_," the last word directed at Michael, "but by the Father who cast me aside for _nothing!" _Silence. No one broke eye contact, and no stray strands of thought were decipherable between the four unparalleled minds, as Lucifer waited. "I thought so. Well, if He's dead, or doesn't care, why do you? Why would you make a paradise for beings that all of you think are beneath you? Why not help me instead?" It was a long shot, but even if none recanted, Lucifer knew the fight was not over yet. _

"_BRING HIM TO ME, I DEMAND TO SPEAK TO HIM!" Lucifer yelled suddenly, horribly, a clear breach of the otherwise relatively unbroken facade of inhuman indifference._

"Then by all means, turn around and face me, rebellious one."_ It was softly spoken, but it carried the weight of uncounted sorrows and untold power across the happenings between the four archangels. Michael's face was set in stone, but Gabriel closed his eyes, a smile threatening to split his face asunder, while Raphael simply swallowed a suddenly dry throat and raised his head, ready for punishment. Lucifer's shoulders slumped, his face reaching another milestone of despairing human emotion, as his hopes fled. Slowly he turned around._

_And faced God. _


	3. Not even dust can settle

**CHAPTER 3: Not even dust can settle**

_God was beautiful._

_It was no vessel their Father was wearing, but an actual embodiment, a small fraction of His essence, siphoned down into a being comprised of light, made human-looking even for the benefit of angelic beings that could see His true visage. Michael gloried in his Father's presence, feeling that incomparable holiness fill every nook and cranny of his being. Restoring all of his power. Etching into shadows darker than the deepest chasm the travesty of what he and his two brothers, along with the entire host, had wrought. He could only look at that humanized vision for a second, and then he hung his head, fully aware that what they had done would not easily be forgiven by their Father. Beside him, Gabriel and Raphael were both as awed and stunned into submission by the sudden return. Gabriel's cheeks wore tears of joy and remorse commingled, while Raphael's eyes simply held on to their pooling, precious cargo of overabundant emotions. Michael wondered at what Lucifer was thinking._

"Speak_," God commanded, and Lucifer fell to his knees, no doubt shattered beyond hope by the unlooked-for presence that graced him, after millennia of languishing far from that divinity. _

"_Father, why?" Lucifer asked, voice breaking. "Why was this done?"_

"You ask only what you already know the answer to," _God's voice intoned. It was like listening to the roaring thunder of the mightiest storm, then funnelled through human vocal cords. Truly the being that represented that matchless splendour wore every conceivable accolade of human beauty as its crown, a stunning reminder of the perfection not even archangels could achieve, and also of how beautiful God had wrought when he made humans. Surely this vision contained the very core essence of that creation, and its light made Lucifer and his once-brothers seem as pale shadows fleeing a too-strong light. Simply by being here, by appearing as He did, an object lesson could not be misunderstood. _"And the answer remains the same, as it has always been."

"_How could it be?" Lucifer asked, the signs of purest defeat and resignation already poisoning his conviction. "How, after millennia of entrusting this marvel of Your hands to these _vermin_, can the answer remain the same?"_

"Why did I give my last-born children this world? Why did I allow this to happen?" _God sent the questions into the air, a rhetorical edge that still promised answers. And Lucifer would not like what he heard. _"To show you, broken one, and all of you, my loyal yet wayward children, what makes these humans so much more than even your eyes can see."

"_That is no answer!" Lucifer denied, and heard the soft rustle as Michael, Raphael and Gabriel each tensed in affront. "They destroy what they touch! They've _never_ been worthy to lead this handiwork! My words, uttered before Your throne so long ago..." Lucifer's voice broke, expressing a longing for what he had never thought he would miss again... "remain true!"_

"Your words, spoken in arrogance and faithlessness, are _still_ wrong," _God replied. Though there was no heat, no anger in the pronouncement, the heavens above cracked asunder and left a dark funnel of angry clouds rotating around the scene on the rooftop. Light flooded God, and touched the faces of his three loyal archangels. Lucifer alone seemed singled out, drowned in shadows that blocked even the relative spotlessness of his white apparel. _"Words cannot describe the depth of your suffering, because you refuse still to _take My word for it._ You have lied."

"_I don't have to!" Lucifer cracked, but no force in existence could allow him rage and anger, not now. His responses were petulant and distraught. God smiled, and His eyes shone, but not with amusement. The compassion and regret radiating from those luminous blue orbs stripped Lucifer of his last defences, and the Adversary gave in, unwillingly, for the third time, to an emotional outpouring. Tears started falling from his eyes, even as he commanded the vessel to desist. To no avail._

"You have lied,_ even to yourself__," God continued._ "So proud did you become when reprimanded for your disobedience, that you have even convinced yourself of the righteousness you felt compelled your actions. But you were wrong." _A clap of thunder accented the final word, and Lucifer turned his head away in shame. This was far too much like the first time, when he amongst all the host was first to voice objections, when the edict rang like a clarion call from the Throne, saying that humanity, God's last-born, were to be loved, even as much as God was loved by his first-born children, who clamoured around his throne like some endless sea of light and love. And a third of the host fell, reacting instantly, proudly, to Lucifer's call for justice. And God had been aggrieved, astonished by his beloved Lightbringer's discord. Before the third could flee the wrath that suddenly spun from the Throne, promising swift judgment, and cause untold mayhem and destruction on the still fledgling human race that already thrived, in its minutiae, on Earth, Michael and the loyal angels took hold of their misguided brethren and cast them from the Heavens, deep into the purgatory that was suddenly there, an instantly-premeditated answer to the issue of punishing such powerful beings. Hell rose to consume its new denizens, and Lucifer had known only anguish and damnation, alone with his thoughts, locked away even from communicating with those of his brethren who had joined him in damnation. _

"_Am I so despicable, simply because I LOVED YOU SO MUCH?" Lucifer asked, heartbroken in ways that not even his vessel could contain or describe. "That I would love only You, and no others?"_

"Had you but professed to your jealousy – for that was what compelled you, I know – I would have shrived you of your transgression, and let you be, so that you could appreciate this last adornment to this earth that was shaped by My hand. But you swore treason, at the steps of My Throne, and bethought yourself the master of the Towers of the North, to occupy what no one BUT **I** may. Did you forget that you did this, Son of Perdition, or did you think that I could?" _It was too much for Lucifer. None could refute this, and Lucifer could at last see, as he refused to when still capable of his own devices and hidden thoughts, how he had wronged his Father, and his brethren, causing their fall alongside him because he had thought he could do a better job. The irony stung him to unbidden weeping, piteous and true, the searing incongruity that finally, fully, forced him to acknowledge how flawed his reasoning still was. And despite his platitudes, his hand-wringing, there would be no redemption for him. Great power had been his since the beginning, and the responsibility of using that power, for self or others, carried a price. And the price for _his_ disobedience? He, once-Lightbringer, now the widely-acclaimed Adversary and harbinger of all that was considered evil? His punishment would not be death, but an eternity in the Hell that was created specifically to bring him off his high horse, strip him of his pride. No redemption. Cast out from those he loved as his brothers and sisters. Cut off, finally, fully, forever, from the glory of his Maker. Reduced to what he loathed in the weakness of humans, to suffer as one of them, alongside them, for transgressions that would _never_ see him free of guilt, and remorse. Always aware of God's light, His love, and knowing that he would never see it or taste it again. _

_Alone. Again. Unendingly._

"_Father," Lucifer began, wetting his lips, but God raised one hand, and Lucifer fell silent._

"There is no grief left in Me to mourn this," _He replied, and His voice was filled with the collective sadness of billions, humans and angels alike. But through it all, a thread of singular, rapturous grief that was purely His own. And it hurt more than anything in any world ever could. It caused Michael to blanch, Raphael to sink to one knee, eyes downcast, and Gabriel to fall to both knees, eyes on his Father, streaming with tears, mouth open in a silent plea for forgiveness. Lucifer's vessel's eyes, ears and nose began to release thin trickles of precious lifeblood, the unbidden signal of finality. _"Only grief for the transgressions of My children. All of them."

"_Even me?" Lucifer pleaded. The silence that replied his broken query was the answer. God was suddenly right in front of His forfeited son, and the lack of a response was now highlighted by the eerie absence of all emotion from God's face, or His stance. _

"The Command stands. You are cast out, Son of Perdition. Once more, and down to your cage. For a little while longer, this world will know My presence, and My children will feel and know Me as they did before." _Lucifer screamed, a deafening sound that shattered the remnants of glass windows, and cracked concrete in the building where they were all assembled. A human would have expired, eardrums exploding and brain cooking, from that sound, but the three other archangels and the Lord of Heaven were silent in their unremitting judgment. God looked away from Lucifer, then straight at the others, and His words were spoken in quiet reprimand, a promise of judgment to come. _"Return what you have borrowed. Unharmed, unbroken, safe and unknowing." _No need to stretch it out further. Gabriel and Raphael vanished without a sound, but Michael remained. He alone of the three. With quick resolute strides he approached Lucifer where the Adversary kneeled in ignominious defeat. Looking God in the eyes, he bowed his head once, then reached out with both hands, hovering over Lucifer's head. Lucifer spared one more meaningful glance at Michael, one final plea for understanding and forgiveness. There was none to be had. _

_Light flooded the scene, bathing the entire city in divine fire that scoured the place clean of all filth and demonic entities, anything that was tainted and unworthy of the grace that, for precious minutes, spoke of the ultimate divinity, walking the earth once more. God reached with His right hand, reaching for Michael's forehead, as the most powerful of archangels submitted willingly to His touch. In that all-encompassing light, where no mortal could ever hope to see into, Michael's essence tore free of its temporary vessel, holy hands reaching beyond sight and into Lucifer, stripping him of his vessel in turn. Earth-shattering sound echoed as a gateway to Hell opened, and two archangels, one under the seal of judgment and forgiveness, one forever damned by ill-thought pride, plummeted into perdition. When the light cleared, all was doused in almost painful silence, leaving only three beings on a rooftop in a city that was devoid of all other life._


	4. Hello Dean Winchester, I am God

**CHAPTER 4: Hello Dean Winchester, I am God**

And just as silently as Michael had come, he had gone.

Dean Winchester fell to his knees, gasping for air. He could still see everything the vengeful archangel had seen, still almost 'taste' the ozone tang of displacement as his lungs gulped down oxygen. His hands ran all over his body, unconsciously making sure everything was in place, and that nothing was missing or damaged. _Weird_, he thought. Castiel had told him, in those leaden tones of emotionless declaration, that he would end up far worse off than Raphael's vessel had, if Dean were ever to say yes to Michael. He'd wanted to ding the angel one against the ear, but he couldn't remember if it had been to try and ram home just how stupid it would be to say yes to the archangel – guess he showed Cas, huh? – or to remind himself just how infuriating even an angel as trusted and respected as Castiel could be. Not that a ding against the ear would have done much to his resident angel.

So, Michael had left, and somehow not turned Dean into a vegetable, or stripped his soul from his body for one last time. Dean didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry, because as awareness became a more pressing concern, and as his mind settled once again into the very, _very_ preferred state of _Dean-ness_, he felt something warm and soft against his knees. Memory rejoined awareness, blasting every single second of what had happened into the back of his skull with such force that he actually reached to the back of his head, fingers running through his short spiky hair as he quested for damage. He found none, and he wouldn't have cared anyway.

Sam.

His face crumpled when he saw the state of his beloved little brother. Michael had been surprisingly charitable in not reducing Dean to a permanent piece of breathing furniture, but apparently Lucifer had not been as kind to Sam. The kid was lying there, limbs lax and unmoving, his body an inert collection of organic matter. His eyes were open, staring, limned in liquid, unseeing, and an expression of mute horror was etched into his features. It broke Dean beyond anything, beyond his own desire to never show what he felt. Because there was no hope now. He had hoped beyond hope, even when he'd said yes, that somehow, Sam might get out of this. That Michael would smite seven kinds of crap out of Lucifer without damaging Dean's baby brother. But he had thought wrong.

And so he sat, oscillating too rapidly between feeling the greatest surge of rage and anger _ever_, and just being numbed by everything that's happened. He cradled Sam in his arms, staring at some point at the ground just beyond where Sam's legs stretched, as tears flowed copiously down his cheeks and onto Sam's face. There was no sound, not even thunder, nothing. It had all come to this...

Nothing.

He tasted ashes in his mouth. He had played host to an archangel and fought and moved through combative ways he had never thought possible, not as a human and not as a vessel. He recalled how flawlessly he and his possessed brother had danced around and over each other, surreal and unearthly weapons flying, psychic powers boosting, breaking and besetting each other in the last battle. How he had pierced Sam – _Lucifer's_ – side and forced the Devil to back the hell down. _How did this happen? How did we end up _here_?_

_Why had Sam said 'yes'?_

_WHY?_

"Because I asked him to," a soft voice said above him.

Dean Winchester's head whipped up, and he found himself staring fully now into the rapturous eyes of God. Who'd have thought? _GOD?_ What were the odds? But His words sliced through any residual smattering of humour that Dean could feel compelled to voice or think just then. Words that were spoken in such quiet, powerful splendour, and yet chilled Dean deeper than to the bone. He blinked rapidly to clear the tears from green eyes, daring to look further at the face the seemed to hover above him. To look for hints, tells, anything that could launch him from his numbed stupor and provoke some sort of outcry.

"What?" he asked.

"Because I asked him to," God reiterated, and Dean wondered if it was possible for him to die from something as mundane as a heart attack right then.

"You _what?_" he snapped, forgetting for just a tiny instant Who he was talking to, and then subsiding beneath that unchanging gaze. If he had offended the Creator of all things, it did not show in God's eyes, or anything. More remorse and anguish than he had thought possible for one human being to feel flooded through him, prepared to annihilate whatever notion of greater good he had harboured. _God asked his little brother to say yes? TO LUCIFER? _"Why would You do that?" was all he managed, voice breaking terribly. He got no immediate answer, and a gigantic sob ripped from his chest. That annoying pain was still there, that stabbing sensation just over his heart. He was going to die from a heart attack, staring into the face of God, with his dead brother in his arms. _Someone take a picture!_

"_Why would You do that?" _he grated, forcing his voice, overwrought with grief and anger, to comply with that one thought.

"To end all of this," God replied. "To give humanity one last chance to show that it is worthy of redemption." _Redemption_. Dean had come to loathe that word. Searching for it had consumed Sam as surely as revenge had done before, when demon blood and killing Lilith had been the ultimate drive to do some good by Dean and Dean's sacrifice, Sam had thought. The quest for forgiveness had nearly stripped Sammy of his humanity, of his drive to go through the motions of the normalcy the kid had always wanted, but could never have. And here they were, in a familiar pose, one brother dead, the other ready to follow him at a moment's notice, once he could figure out how. Oh wait, he was talking to God...

"He made a deal? With You?" Dean breathed, overcome by the implications. And then God smiled, and a small sliver of...calm, drained into Dean's mind.

"I do not make deals, Dean. I do not bargain, I do not compromise. Not in matters such as this."

"Then for G- _Your_ sake, _why? Please, just answer me this!" _Dean's voice cracked and bled away at the end, finally slipping into incoherence. He was about to bawl like a baby, and even if it was the end of the world – _his_ world – as he knew it, he couldn't seem to care that the maker of all things was staring down at him. That the compassion he would scorn when others saw him like this was somehow the very thing that now let him slip almost effortlessly beyond personal barriers of self-worth and human pride. So what if he cried, here, now? In front of God?

"When you took your brother back, when you responded differently to what Zachariah had hoped you would do, that was the moment."

"M-moment?"

"You sacrificed your fears, to save the future and humanity, but also your brother," God continued, a small smile on those immaculate lips. "Mostly your brother. You took responsibility in a way that you would never have done before, and you began leading your fellow man while still taking care of your one last, private responsibility on this earth." God's voice was invasive, Dean realized, but in no way could he feel any instinct or sense of this being a bad thing. This invasiveness was like a balm, unlike anything he had ever experienced or imagined. He honestly didn't know how to respond truthfully to something that felt so good. "Sam did this for you."

"I never asked him to!" Dean almost yelled, but the idea of expending effort to do so drained from him as fast as the actual attempt did.

"You did not have to. When you gave your brother back his dignity, your trust, the things he lacked after Lucifer was raised, and the things that could restore him in your eyes, you changed the future Zachariah showed you. Before, Sam would have said yes out of despair. But a week ago, when he said yes to Lucifer, he did it willingly. He forced your hand." Dean didn't know what to do, he honestly didn't. He could not reconcile what Sam had done, or the reasons for it. The only thing he could latch onto was why God would ask Sammy to say yes. And God knew where Dean's thoughts were going. "Sam began praying again, after you were reunited. He asked Me to help, not really knowing if I heard, but still doing it anyway. He tried everything in his power to find hope, even though he still had you. Hope for humanity, and for you, what you were supposed to do."

"Why wouldn't he tell me about this? When did this happen?" Dean asked, heartbroken by Sam's sacrifice.

"You would have stopped him, convinced him not to. And he would have listened to you," God stated. Again, a tug to Dean's heart. _Sammy would have listened to me! _Oh God, to have come so far, to have come so close to being what they were before learning of Azazel's plans for the psychic kids... "So I came to him, in a dream. I told him exactly who I was, and I asked this of him. And he agreed."

"He wouldn't have given in that easily!" Dean surprised himself with how vehemently he defended Sam's willpower against coercive influences. _Funny, two years ago he was practically running his brother into the ground with how _stupid_ Sam's choices had been, how easily he had given in. _Strike two for Sammy's redemption.

"He knew what was at stake. He knew how this could end."

"How?"

"I showed him. How to end this. How to stop this false start to the End of Days. And he did it willingly, so that you would let Michael in. Because Sam finally knew, right before he said yes to Lucifer, that you would do what you needed to do. To thwart Lucifer's plan by letting you do the one thing you would never have done otherwise." So much longsuffering echoed in those words that Dean felt compelled to try and figure out why God was telling him this straight. He wanted _so badly_ to rile against Him, to screech like a lunatic at how screwed to hell everything had been, and demand how He was going to fix it. Instead, he waited, until his heart stretched taut into infinity, ready to snap at a moment's notice. Suddenly he didn't care. He didn't care that this was _GOD_. He didn't care that he was about to scream at the _Alpha-Omega-Beginning-End_ of all things.

He was Dean Winchester, and he _demanded to know_.

He looked down at Sam, felt another jolt of nostalgia as a light breeze made Sammy's hair flutter ever so slightly. Gently, reverently, _longingly_, he let Sam's head go and allowed his dearly departed brother's body to lie flat against the ground, folding Sam's hands over his chest. And Dean Winchester rose like an embodiment of compound human suffering, not caring that at his full height, he could only stare directly at God's nose.

"Where have You been all this time? How could You let all of this happen? _Did you care that kids and babies and defenceless mothers and fathers have died senselessly because You didn't interfere? You left Your _idiot_ angels in charge and they did a fantastic _bang-up_ job doing Your work! WHERE WERE YOU?"_

_He's gonna smite me, I just know it_, Dean thought, before reason fled screaming into the meta-night again. Dean looked God full in the face and waited for thunder to crown the heavens and lightning to earth itself in him. To get atomized, lobotomized, creatively spliced, diced and dissected, an example of flying full on into the face of absolute benevolence and, probably, the be-all and end-all of enraged retaliation and retribution. He was God, wasn't He? God could do whatever the hell He pleased.

God smiled.

It was a genuine, wide smile, and Dean was suddenly struck by how absolutely _human_ God looked, despite the still-obvious light that seemed to comprise Him, and even though He wasn't inside a vessel. And the wind rose around them even as they departed from Dean's sails, leaving him caressed by something that could only be described as infinitely gentle.

"I gave you this world, Dean. To all of you. It was My gift, to do with as you pleased. Did I hold out hope that you would remain true to what I've wanted for all of you? Yes. Even when you destroyed, murdered, undid all I have set in motion. You wish to know why," God said, stalling Dean's fifth 'why' with a small, effortless, compassionate chuckle. "Free will, Dean. My greatest gift to my youngest children."

"But angels have that too," Dean protested, and he actually felt sheepish when God slowly shook His head.

"They are judged separately from humanity. Their power comes with responsibility, which they cannot shirk lightly. When they do..." There was no threat apparent in the way the words came together, but Dean felt a twinge of terror. God didn't have to finish that sentence, it did it all on its own. "To you I gave freedom and choice, always hoping that you would keep your eyes on Me, despairing when you wouldn't." _Okay, I don't feel guilty _at all_ right now, _Dean thought. Suddenly God's hand rested on his shoulder, and he felt the world fall away as he pondered the almost intimate touch.

"Why us?" Dean asked, as God tilted His head slightly to one side, appraising. 'Why' number six. Dean doubted he'd been this inquisitive even as a child.

"Because when you are under pressure, under fire, under attack, from anything that threatens you... that is when you shine. You shine until I can see you as clearly as I do my first-born children, in Heaven around me. And when the world started to burn as Lucifer rose, and life took a back seat to survival, that was when humanity shone its brightest in a long time. That was when _you_, Dean Winchester, shone so bright that not even my wayward archangels could have foreseen just how well they chose, despite forcing the End of Days to begin, before it should have."

Dean practically wilted under God's sincerity and praise. When the tears came unbidden again, they were... joyful. Worth letting fall, and not hide. God laughed, a sound so pure that the clouds above parted and left them bathed in a radiant cone of light.

"Why you? And why Sam?" God filled in before Dean could ask, and the older Winchester simply nodded, still basking in the unlooked-for glow of praise. _From GOD!_ "Because you both rose to fight against the iniquities of this world. You would have done so even if your mother had never died, or your mortal father had not turned to hunting. The scale would have been smaller, but the reasons would have been the same. Because _I_ chose _you both_ to lead my children, and to stop this evil."

"We needed help," Dean added.

"And help you received. Even when you couldn't see it, or realize it, or grasp it. Dean, _I never left either one of you. Not you, nor anyone who called on Me in times of adversity.__"_

"But everyone who died because of this," Dean began, feeling the surge of remorse overcome him once more. "All those people who _did_ cry out to You, and _still_ died..."

"Are safe in the fields of Heaven, released from their agony and rewarded forevermore. You feel regret that they died, that you could not save them. But Dean, take heart," and God reached out, taking Dean's face in both His hands, making sure the hunter stared Him full in the face. "_I saved the ones you could not_."

And there it was. Dean felt it course through him like new life, like fire that burned away guilt and darkness, giving breath and life and glory. He closed his eyes, lips trembling, because there, in those simple words, his greatest fear, his single most prevalent regret, met a bitter and timely end at last. Because it was not just assurance that was given.

It was Dean Winchester's forgiveness, from all his past mistakes and perceived failures. _Straight from the mouth of God. Unbreakable. Unstoppable. Undeniable. Unending. _

"You and your brother were always meant to do this, Dean. Both of you were tried, tested and tempered by the way life treated you, far more so than most other people will ever be. You were never cursed, nor were you ever alone. You simply stopped looking in the first place where your help would have come from." Again Dean felt a small twinge of guilt at that statement, but God let go of his head, and treated him to another radiant smile.

"How could You have been so certain that we would have succeeded?"

"Because I had faith in you, Dean, and in Sam." Dean didn't think he could handle any more praise. _GOD had faith in THEM? _"And in the end, you could never actually prove Me wrong. No matter what you did."

"But Sammy..." Dean said, and he looked down and to the side, where Sam rested on the concrete rooftop, at peace at last. But Dean's heart broke, because this world was now emptier, even emptier than before, when Sam had suddenly upped and left one night, only for omens, signs and portents to skyrocket, and for one lucky hunter to spot Sam, surrounded by an entire armada of demons, leading them as Lucifer. For the angels to descend en masse, for Zachariah to nag Dean endlessly, for Castiel and Anna to step in and fight alongside Heaven, though their choice to fall had seen them scorned.

There was no world for Dean without his Sammy.

And God knew this.

"Please take me to him. Wherever You've sent him, please send me there too," Dean whispered brokenly, hoping somehow that mercy really was one of the most beautiful things in God's repertoire. That maybe this could all end, despite how he now felt, despite this unprecedented gift of God's personal praise. He was grateful, he was, but in the end, all he wanted was Sam.

"You cannot go where he is, Dean. Not yet." Dean's heart sank like a mountain in the deepest ocean trench. Even as he knew that Sam was at last, truly at rest, not in Hell, but in Heaven – and he was really, _really_ happy that his little brother's suffering was finally over – Dean could not conceive of staying here, picking up the pieces, without the only family he had every truly loved unreservedly and unconditionally. He turned away, turned his face away from God, and stared into the vast emptiness that stretched around them. As though the entire world was empty, save for him and God.

He was about to speak, to ask what he was supposed to do now. He was completely ready for the flutter of wings, the swish of movement, anything that indicated that, despite all the good things that God had given him, God would be gone, back to His Throne, leaving Dean to fix everything.

"Lucifer and Michael were brothers, unlike this world or any other had ever seen. Their bond was unbreakable, until pride drove Lucifer to take a dark path and to carve his own way into what I had done. They were beautiful together. Endlessly fascinating, endlessly endearing, endlessly bound by their love for each other, and Me." Dean looked at God again, at the glittering blue eyes, flawless face and simple, elegant garb. At the embodiment of all that was good, made flesh. So that he could speak to the one who sacrificed everything, even _that kind of love for his brother_, to save the rest of God's children from a fate worse than death. "They are forever sundered now, and Michael will never truly be free of that pain." Dean listened, appalled at what he was hearing, at the parallels being drawn. God sighed, His eyes closing momentarily, for the first time, before opening again. He walked slowly to stand by Dean's side, staring out over the empty expanse of ruined city, even as Dean waited, enrapt, to hear what He would say. And when He spoke, Dean knew that Heaven, and God, and mercy, and justice, and grace, and sacrifice, and _love_, were all true, and all real.

"You and Sam will not share their fate." God's hand rested on Dean's shoulder again, and this time, the wind rose like a gale, not touching the two lone figures standing on the rooftop of a single building in a devastated city, but filling the air with a purity and cleanliness that was not of this earth. Light descended, swallowing Dean and Sam Winchester, as God's human form dissolved and expanded, not burning, not destroying.

_Remaking what was lost._


	5. First Train Home

_Well, the update took a while, mostly because I'm overworked during the day and utterly lazy during the night. Still, I haven't forgotten it, and I am close to finishing it. Maybe two more chapters, and then the story is complete. Hope you all enjoy. And remember folks, when someone writes a nice review for a story, a writer gets his/her wings! _

**CHAPTER 5: First Train Home**

"Hello Sam."

_Sam. That was his name, wasn't it? He responded to it instantly, and then realized he couldn't see anything. He couldn't feel anything either, and panic started to rise, bile threatening to choke him. He cried out, but no sound came forth, and he let the panic sweep through him, unchecked. How could he respond? He couldn't even do anything! _

"Don't be alarmed, Sam. You'll be able to see, touch, speak and feel in a moment_._" And then everything roared into perfect clarity, like a pin-prick of radiance blossoming into existence. Expanding rapidly from the centre and widening his vision. Sam gasped at what he saw, at the place he found himself at. At the familiarity of everything. And the memories that rested in that sight. This time it wasn't bile that threatened to choke him. It was sadness, and regret. But mostly it was nostalgia, because this was the one place he never thought he'd see again.

It was home.

Their home, in Lawrence, Kansas. The same house, the same trappings, the same _everything._ And it didn't feel empty, or 'stolen' – whatever, the house had been bought, fair and square, after John Winchester took his sons and vanished – but rather, it felt...

Like he belonged. Like he always thought a home would feel like.

Sam almost expected Dean to come walking out from some room, deeply engrossed in doing something normal. Going through the mail, reading a newspaper, taking out the trash. Normal. That's how it felt.

"Is this real?" he asked, his voice breaking from all the pent-up emotion. How desperate he was for what he saw around him to _be_ real. He swallowed – realizing that he was now in the flesh again, it seemed – and looked down. Legs, body, arms, intact, all there. He wondered the question inside his head again, and for the first time since regaining function, he looked around for the voice that had called him to this place. _As opposed to being where?_ the mental voice challenged, and he frowned slightly. Where had he been? He took a tentative few steps forward, bare feet landing softly on the thick rug that covered the wooden flooring that ran between the kitchen and the rest of the open living area. He looked around him again, for the moment distracted by what he saw. Nothing in here was what he remembered. He could never recall, with a six-month old baby's memories, what their home had truly looked like, and after he and Dean had returned to Lawrence shortly after Jessica's death, he hadn't paid attention too much, trying his hardest not to let the strange sense of melancholy overwhelm him as he and Dean prepared to sort out the poltergeist troubles. So he took it all in as if it meant something, trying to find out why he was here, and whether this was a dream – an uncomfortably _vivid_ dream – or the real deal. He was still stalking softly when he entered the living room, and he saw a tall man seated on one of the white sofas. Sam stopped dead in his tracks then, breath catching in his throat.

The man before him was beautiful, beyond any sense of moderation or preference. There was nothing possible in the world that could equate or beat this kind of unprecedented splendour, and Sam felt no weird sense of _wrongness_ from this picture of rapturous exquisiteness. The man was clad all in white, and Sam was slightly alarmed for a moment, before he discarded the notion. He looked at the face, and was again caught in analyzing what he saw. A perfect, chiselled set of features, with each part comprised of perfection, and all parts playing towards something that threatened to bring tears to Sam's eyes, even if he didn't know why. But what drew Sam in was the eyes. They were the kind of blue one would only get if you could condense a tropical ocean into the crispest, clearest, cloudless winter sky. There was little else that could suffice in describing them, except for the emotional undertow that rested in those magnetic orbs. Sam thought that he could just lose himself forever in those depths, and be free of everything. Calm and sympathy radiated from those eyes like lighthouse beacons.

"Hello, Sam," the man said, and Sam could put a face to the voice that had called him.

"Why am I here?" Sam asked tentatively. He felt as though his voice should have been cracked and hoarse from disuse, and he couldn't explain exactly why he felt this way, still surprised at how normal he did sound. The white-clad man leaned back into the sofa, one arm stretching to the side to grasp the back of the seat, while the other gestured for Sam to take a seat.

"This is a setting that is comprised of all your greatest and most hoped-for desires. It was born from need, and so I've given you this space for a short time, to be free of your burdens. Also, I wished to speak to you directly, this time."

"This time?" Sam asked, puzzled. And then, as per usual, the feeling of having his world upended with a destructive blast of agony – migraines and visions, nausea and exhaustion – assaulted his senses. He scrunched his eyes closed, waiting for the barrage of pain to hit him. Instead, he felt... nothing. No agony, no terror, no bone-aching weariness setting in and sapping him physically of strength. Just the realization of what had gone before. _Before he had woken up here_. It was all there, and he shied away from it like he would a plague. He realized he was breathing heavily, and he took the only lifeline that was currently available. The man in white, seated so casually on the sofa, watching him. Sam swallowed, then noted the man's hand was still pointing at the seat next to the sofa, offering Sam a seat. Sam wet his lips and slowly complied, his eyes never once leaving the man's face. The recliner was incredibly soft, far more comfortable than what he was used to. _Better than a crappy motel bed, that's for sure! _A voice called in Sam's head, and he realized it wasn't his. Or rather, it wasn't his voice that 'spoke' the words. Whose was it? Familiarity screamed through his neurons, firing involuntary synapses that demanded attention, and were riddled with... concern. As Sam also leaned back into the comfort of the recliner, he frowned again, pondering the voice and what it made him feel, and the man smiled warmly. Sam knew the man, now. And contrary to what he had always assumed anyone would feel, it wasn't annihilating ecstasy, or terror. It was simply... comfort. Sighing, Sam knew he couldn't ignore the thoughts in his head any longer. He knew it had happened, and wherever he was right now, they had either failed, or...

"Or this is just temporary, and you'll soon wake up," God intoned lightly, as if it was nothing to cause concern.

"This is a dream?" Sam queried. He reasoned that he would feel less disjoint from everything if he could just ascertain where exactly he was.

"It's a Green Room." Sam tilted his head up slightly in recognition, knowing what that meant. Green Rooms; angelic and heavenly spaces, probably outside of mainstream reality, where the hosts of Heaven could whisk people away to, in order to keep them out of harm's way, or to contain them. "But you are not ready yet to be returned to Earth."

"Then why am I here?"

"As I said, I wished to speak to you. And to give you your options." Alarm bells went off in his head. Sam swallowed a suddenly dry throat. God leaned forward a bit, ensuring that he held Sam's undivided attention. "You have a very important choice to make, Sam."

"Choice." The word was alien, and he knew what had happened would forever cement, in his mind, what he had been through. _What he and Dean had been through_.

His next reaction was instant.

He shot to his feet, eyes wide and mouth open, his mind screaming _DEAN DEAN DEAN!_ in an endless litany of shock and fear. How could he have forgotten Dean? Where was Dean in all of this? Frantic, he forced himself to observe the grittier details of everything that had led to him winding up here. He looked around the room, for a moment berating himself for idiocy when he thought that Dean would be hiding in the same room, somewhere. What had happened to his brother?

"Dean is on Earth, Sam. Safe, watched over by no less than five archangels. Not that he needs it; this... space and time, where we are, is like a moment in time only, a second. Not longer than that." God said, in answer to the obvious emotional discomfort Sam was experiencing.

"I need to see him!" Sam nearly shouted, as if he were afraid God would deny him that privilege. He almost expected it to happen. Instead, God simply cocked His head slightly to one side, eyes glittering with something more than indulgence. No, there was nothing in there that spoke of condescension, or belittlement. Sam was surprised that it was mirthful.

"That is the choice you have to make, Sam Winchester," God replied. "That is why we are here."

"What choice? What happened? Please... please, You have to..." Sam's voice broke, and he could feel the tears, just starting to form in his eyes. "... I have to see him." Almost failing to swallow the exponentially larger lump in his throat, Sam forced the rest of his intended thought out. "One last time." He waited, standing, watching the immaculate divinity before him, wondering if God would at least let him have that final courtesy, before sending him to hell. He thought back suddenly on that night, which now felt like an eternity ago. Just a random night, with him and Dean holed up in another way-below-sub-standard motel, protections in place, weapons cleaned, ready to try and sleep past all the pressures and horrors that waited with the Apocalypse. And the dream that had banished Sam's latest little nightmare, bringing breathtaking clarity and peace to his mind. It had been as though Sam had simply woken up. Dean was there, lying in his own bed, in the shadows, a comforting presence, blissfully unaware. It had taken everything in Sam not to jump out of his own bed and yell up a storm when he saw this same, white-clad being with the blue eyes, seated on the bottom corner of Dean's bed. He had instantly thought _Lucifer_, considering the possible future Dean had told him of – _and Sam dreaded that white-clad perversion he had become, in that future. _But he remembered how Lucifer's vessel, Nick, looked like. And what was the point in Satan showing up, in a dream, looking like someone else? Did he think Sam would say yes to the most incredible example of human beauty? _Maybe if you'd been a girl_, Sam had thought darkly. He didn't swing the other way, and besides, too much Lilith in his life had given him a healthy wariness for the opposite sex disguising absolute evil, also. That thought alone, strangely, had halted his intended tirade, or a dive for the nearest weapon. He remembered everything very clearly, now.

"_Who the hell are you?" he demanded angrily, but still fairly softly. He didn't want to wake Dean, although he was surprised his older brother hadn't woken up already. The white-clad man simply stared at him, and then spoke in a voice that immediately robbed Sam of all desire to fight._

"_I am God__," came the reply._

"_Yeah, right," Sam retorted. _

"_Of course you would appreciate a bit of proof. And no, Sam; Dean is not really here, this is a dream,"__ the man who called himself God stated, as though he had read Sam's thoughts. The man continued. __"When you had just arrived at Stanford, had just settled in, you ran into Jessica for the first time. Through all the awe you felt when you looked at her, through all the needs to make her happy, you had one prayer that went through your mind, when the two of you finally became a couple. Do you remember what you prayed for?"__ Sam was about to answer, shocked by the example, when 'God' continued. "__You prayed that, whatever else happened in your life, that she would be kept safe. That anything and everything from your past that could possibly come back to haunt your steps would fall on you, and not her. You felt so content, when you prayed, trusting that what you believed and asked for would come true. It was truly a beautiful request__."_

"_One You didn't see fit to answer," Sam had grated out. He didn't care that this was _GOD_ – he believed Him, because there was no way that anyone else could ever have known that, or the feeling that had gone with that quiet resolution. But that didn't mean Sam didn't have his fair share of annoyed, pissed-as-hell tirades that he could conjure up to throw at God's feet. Still, here he was, and despite his desire to just demand answers, he couldn't. This being in front of him shouted 'holy' in uncounted ways. And looked at him with pity in His face, pity Sam knew he couldn't survive for long._

"_All things happen for a reason, Sam,__" God replied. __"And you will not be the first person, if most everyone else had this opportunity, to feel thwarted in their prayers, to feel betrayed by their faith, when tragedy has struck. Or the last. What matters – and what mattered, even when Jessica died – was that you held on to your faith, despite the desire that burned in you to end it all. To give up."__ Sam took a shuddering breath. This was definitely no demon speaking to him. Or Lucifer. There was no smarmy edge, no sneering levels of indifference and the palpable knowledge that, whatever the devil wanted, he would get. This was a quiet explanation for something that all people felt at some stage, delivered by the essence of Hope that these people prayed to – that Sam prayed to – and Sam realized that this was all the proof he needed._

"_Where have You been all this time?" Had Dean been awake, had Dean been the one asking the questions, it would have been fire and vehemence. Sam just wanted to know, with a world-weary weight that settled heavily on his shoulders. No anger, no hatred or rage. Sam just wanted to know._

"_I never left, if that is what you are wondering__," God replied. __"I have been here all this time, watching. And no, Sam, I did not do anything beyond what has been My prerogative since I first created everything. This world is yours, and became what it did because of the gift I gave all my children.__" _Free will_, Sam mentally added. He knew he would get no more than that, and he realized that he didn't really want to know more than that. There was a reason God was here, and Sam doubted it was, considering the state of the world at present, to have a nice little chat concerning theology and faith. Sighing, Sam spared a look for his brother, lying there blissfully unaware, and then he frowned. Why was God here, speaking to him, instead of Michael's vessel? Surely God could persuade Dean to give in? He looked back at the dream-state embodiment of the Creator, and voiced his thoughts aloud, even knowing that reading a human being's mind was nothing if not incredibly easy to God._

"_What do You want?" Sam asked. God, still seated on the edge of Dean's bed, leaned forward for emphasis._

"_You__." And Sam's mind went momentarily blank. God rose in a smooth notion, betraying no otherworldly grace, no inhuman gestures. The vessel, or simulacrum, was perfect in its humanity. Perfect. _Of course it would be perfect_, Sam mused._

"_I don't understand," he replied almost breathlessly, feeling that this was striking too close to that conversation with Lucifer, a while back. "Dean is Michael's sword; he's the one who'll end this. What do you want with me? I'm just..." _I'm just the guy who ended the world, betrayed the ones I love most, slept with a demon skank, drank her blood and charged myself up with infernal go-go juice. I killed Lilith, I raised Lucifer and pretty much damned the whole world. Who know how many people have died already?

"_I know,"__ God replied softly. "__Sam, you might not understand this, or be willing to accept it, but all of these things happened for a reason. Yes, even the Apocalypse. But Dean is not the one I'm looking for right now, Sam. It's you."_

"_Why me?" Sam asked. Boy, was he getting tired of that. He half expected the same answer he always got, from Ruby and from Lucifer. Just empty words that, on any other day, with any other issues, might have soothed him, hell, even filled him with pride. Say it, he mentally egged God on. Just say it and let me flounder in more questions with even less satisfying answers..._

"_Because only you can make this decision, Sam. No one can force you to do it, which is why I'm asking you to consider it."_

"_What?" Sam asked, surprised that the answer hadn't been 'It had to be you, Sammy. It always had to be you.'_

"_Say yes to Lucifer.__" And Sam's world came crashing down. He was rearing back from God in seconds, stunned, appalled, _horrified, terrified, screaming why, why, why in an endless litany of denial. _He looked at Dean, oblivious to what was taking place. How could God ask this of him? Why would God ask this of him? Was this even God, really? Maybe it really _was_ Lucifer, yanking a different chain, trying a different way. The world blurred as he shook his head, tears running freely, knowing that, once again, he had no control over what the world, the demons and the angels wanted to use him for. _

"_Sam, look at me,"__ God said, and Sam realized he was sitting on the motel floor, back against the wall, where he had apparently slid down after reeling in shock. And God was hunched down before him, one large hand placed soothingly on Sam's knee, the other reaching up to gently caress Sam's cheek. "__I am, that I am,__" He said, and Sam recognized the statement. "__I am going to tell you why I want you to say yes.__" God glanced over His shoulder, at Dean sleeping undisturbed. "__Because it is the only way your brother will say yes, too. But you both will not be saying yes to bring on paradise, or to give my angels what they want.__"_

"_Then why?" Sam choked out, crying in misery. The hands of the Creator on him were soothing, and made the misery bearable, but misery would never be anything other than a complete bitch. _

"_To end something that had started too early. To put right to the wrongs committed by both sides, and to restore the world to what it was meant to be. To give it a chance to come back.__" To Me. Sam heard the implied end, and it caused him to cry in earnest, overwhelmed by what was asked of him. "__If you say yes, you will betray this tenuous trust that has come between you and your brother once more. He will feel betrayed. He will feel as though he failed you, in spite of everything that he did to help you. But Sam, this will not fall on you."_

"_You want me to force Dean's hand?" Sam asked, heartbroken. How could he do that to his brother, again? How could he recklessly spit in the face of everything he had submitted Dean to? _

"_Yes, Sam. Say yes to Lucifer, and Dean will have nothing left but to say yes to Michael,__" God stated._

"_I can't do that, not to Dean!" Sam shook his head, hoping to wake up, but the hands on his cheek and knee remained, grounding him, allowing him clarity despite the nightmare horrors he felt at the very idea of what was being asked to do. _

"_Sam, I may not interfere, not directly, not in the coming battle. My wayward and misguided angelic children did get one thing right, though: there must be a battle, and Lucifer must be brought low by Michael.__" Sam hung his head. He didn't want to do this. All he wanted was to survive the Apocalypse, and for Dean to not say yes. But he knew this wasn't how it would be. Even if he was with Dean, all the way, about kicking ass and taking names, going down swinging, he knew there was no real way out. Lucifer would resurrect him if he died, and he was pretty sure the angels and Michael would have the same little surprise in store for Dean, if Dean kicked the bucket. So there was no real hope._

_Only this._

"_But I'll die. He'll destroy my soul. There won't be anything left. And Dean..." he trailed off, a breath-robbing, hitching sob stopping him from completing the sentence. _

"_Have faith, Sam. I would never ask this of you, unless there was a way beyond such things. Death is a small step towards more blessed things, greater experiences. This life is so short, here on Earth, and it is only a stop-over.__"_

"_It's the only life I – we know," Sam replied in a small voice._

"_And it is for this life that I ask you to say yes,__" God replied. _

"_What if Dean doesn't fall for it? What if he just gives up?"_

"_How can he, when he finally got you back from the dark place your path took you? He told you what Zachariah showed him, in the future, three years from now. You know why Dean took you back. He will not give up on you, not now. Not anymore. Never again."_

"_Can he do it?" Sam asked, voice still shaky. He was honestly entertaining the idea, and even though he didn't like it one bit, he could see the reason. More, he could see why God would ask this. Why He asked it, instead of commanding it. "Can Dean and Michael stop him, once Dean says yes?" He held on so tightly to what God had told him. About how Dean would never turn his back on Sam again. It filled him with a sense of hope, and the purest feeling of love for his annoying, full-of-crap, beloved big brother. This wasn't God exploiting that fledgling hope, so far demolished that they'd thought their brotherhood was destroyed beyond reprieve. No, Sam knew that God was pointing out the fact, in its simplest, most truthful essence. And it made Sam's heart soar, despite what he was feeling right now._

_God nodded, slowly, with measure. Sam sighed, hanging his head once more._

"_Please, just promise that Dean will be safe... you know, after he's been..." _Possessed. _By an archangel._ _God treated Sam to the most brilliant of smiles, more than just a tugging of lips. God was smiling widely, happily. He leaned in, and with infinite grace and gentleness, he took hold of Sam's head and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. Sam felt a very light tingle thrill through his body, and he felt all the horror and misery drain from him. It felt as though, for the first time since he could think on such things, everything would be alright. _That God was with him, completely_. He couldn't _not_ look into those gorgeous eyes and feel that. And God regarded him with unbridled understanding and compassion, withdrawing his hands and getting to his feet. He offered Sam a hand up as well, and Sam took it without question, feeling afire with renewed vigour, in spite of what he had been asked to do._

"_Dean will be kept safe. This I promise you, Sam Winchester.__"_

"_And me? What happens to me, after Lucifer? What if he finds this... conversation, in my mind, when he takes control?" _

"_He will not. This I have made sure of. And remember, Sam: no sacrifice for selfless purpose goes unrewarded. And you have _always_ been _MY_ child, just as every human being is. Rest now, and prepare yourself for what is to come. It will be very hard, Sam. Harder than anything you've ever done before. But this war will end, soon, and then...__" God didn't finish the statement. He simply smiled again, and a column of white light expanded suddenly around him, forcing Sam to shield his eyes. When he looked up, he was sitting in his bed, wide awake, the motel room doused in darkness, populated with all the little sounds that embodied the deep hours of night. He looked to the side, noticing Dean stir._

"_Sam?" he heard his brother grumble without looking at him, or pushing up on his elbows. "You okay?"_

"_Yeah. Yeah, just need to use the bathroom." _

"_One beer, Sammy, you had one beer," Dean groaned, but the humour of the statement was there, shot through with fatigue. Sam smiled. He hated keeping this from his brother, and in the last few months, it had been remarkable how easy it was once more to tell Dean anything and everything. He couldn't tell Dean it was a dream or a nightmare. Those two responses usually got Dean more awake, because Dean knew about Lucifer, and how he'd invade Sam's dreams, begging Sam to say yes. And Sam couldn't take a pep talk, even a humorous one. Not now._

_It felt wrong to hide this, but Sam knew what God had asked, and he knew that God would not want Dean to know. Sam looked at his brother, at the profile that was dimly accented in the darkness. Sam smiled, and two tears trailed from his eyes as he silently thanked God for the gift of his brother, and silently pleaded, without saying it out loud, that Dean would forgive him for what he was about to do. "Go back to sleep." Resolve flared through him, and he knew that if he didn't do this right now, his nerve would fail him. He turned his face from Dean, hoping that his brother would not draw this out and ask for more by way of explanation. He couldn't do this, not with Dean playing big brother and implying with every word and nuance that he was still Sam's guardian, still the eldest, with all the rights to the position. Sam couldn't take that right now. It would break his determination. So Sam climbed out of bed and walked towards the bathroom. Dean lifted his head as he heard the movement. "Bathroom," Sam supplied, and Dean's head dropped back to the pillow. Sam waited until he was safe behind the closed bathroom door, before he loosed a juddering sigh. This was it. No turning back._

"_I hope this works," he thought, but that was just it. He _trusted_ that it would work. He had just received instruction from _God_, so yes, he had to believe. Thus armed with faith and trust, and above all, love, Sam Winchester opened his eyes, staring heavenwards, and spoke. "Promise that you won't harm Dean," he said. Instantly he felt Lucifer's presence, felt it flow into his mind. No vision of Nick to carry word, just the _presence_ of the devil. Compared to the intense calm and contentment that Sam had felt when God spoke to him, having Lucifer inside his mind again filled Sam with so much revulsion that he wavered. But it was only for an instant, so fast that he knew Lucifer would not have detected it. Or didn't care. And God had promised, so Sam knew, suddenly, almost joyfully, that some part of his mind was locked to the devil, would not be rifled through after he became a vessel. Smiling ever so slightly, he waited for the response._

"_Of course," Lucifer whispered through Nick's patronizing voice. _

"_Then yes," Sam said, and the world dissolved in a slow-rolling, thunderous concatenation of white light and roaring sound. _

_Sam Winchester took one final breath before his consciousness was suppressed completely._


	6. Sam's Choice

**CHAPTER 6: Sam's Choice**

"One last time? No Sam, you are mistaken."

"What?"

He couldn't believe it. He swallowed convulsively, and ran those words through his head one more time. Was God making a joke? No, Sam doubted it, no matter how far-fetched the words sounded, there was no way that God would make a joke. Not about something like this.

"But... everything I've done, the things I..." he stopped, perplexed, looking at God. There was no change, nothing. He was simply sitting there, a small smile on the immaculate, chiselled features.

"I spoke to Dean, Sam," God began, and Sam grew silent, listening enrapt for any news of his brother. "As I've said, he is safe. Still in the dark as to what's happening here. But time is, for the moment, irrelevant. He will find out soon enough."

"What does that mean?" Sam asked.

"You died, Sam." Sam pursed his lips, eyes going wide, limned in tears, as he nodded quickly, jerkily. He had expected it to happen that way, but he hadn't expected to be dead already. Dead, even as he reminisced and spoke to God. Should it seem impossible, that he was conversing with the Creator of everything, and still be dead? But where was his soul, then? Was it in hell? Heaven? Limbo? "You could say that, yes. Your soul was kept in abeyance, until I could speak to Dean, and then to you. You see, this choice that lies before you is a critical one. The most critical of all."

"What did you say to Dean?" Sam asked, gaining a bit more control of emotions and feelings that threatened to overwhelm him. He hastily scrubbed a hand across his eyes, remembering vaguely that he was before God, now. The desire to be strong, even if it was appearance only, coursed strongly through his veins. God spared him a slight tug at the corner of His lips, amused somewhat by Sam's reaction. Sam didn't care. He wanted to know what happened. The last thing he recalled was a fleeting moment of clarity when he was leading a demon host – an entire city, possessed by demons and angels! – as Lucifer, and seeing Dean launch himself from the rooftops, filled with incredible power that spoke of Michael, finally having secured his vessel. Sam had felt triumphant despite the need to not let Lucifer know the trap that had been set for him. Using Sam as bait. Lucifer had sensed his spurt of hope, and had practically annihilated what was left of Sam, casting him into unknowing darkness. Sam realized, now, that that had been the moment Lucifer had killed him. Severed his soul from his body. And apparently, God had snatched his soul and placed it somewhere else, away from awareness and the battle that had transpired.

"Did we win?" Sam asked, and God nodded. Sam felt all the pent-up energy and tension leave his body. He felt weak, suddenly, but it was from relief. More, he bit his lip as the unshed tears he had valiantly tried to hold back started to fall. He uttered a giddy little laugh, shaking his head. "So it's over?" Broken voice and attempts to appear strong be damned! He let his emotions wash over him, and for once, they were shot through with all things good and clean, not corrupt and tainted.

"Lucifer has been returned to his cage, and the hosts of Heaven are resealing the door as we speak."

"So... he can rise again?" Sam asked tentatively, afraid again of what he might hear.

"He _will_ rise again," God replied, but held up one hand, as if to assuage Sam's fears. "But when he does, it will not be because his damned cohorts freed him by breaking seals. Locking him away now is final, _until __**I**__ say otherwise_."For the first time since he had spoken to God, Sam detected the slightest trace of everything that made God... God. In that last sentence was unmentionable power and majesty, neatly enshrined in command and resolution that spoke of strength unparalleled by anything in creation. It was a mote of justice, terrible, swift and everlasting, and Sam was utterly, _utterly_ grateful that he was not the one to stand before that wrath as its recipient. He checked himself with a small gasp, thinking of how Lucifer must have felt, right before he got banished again. _Sympathy for the devil? _Sam mused, and snickered inwardly. _Nope, not even a little._ "But this will occur long after all who currently reside on the Earth are dead and gone."

"And Dean, is he..." Sam found that he could hardly complete any sentences. He was just too afraid that, amidst all the amazing things that God was telling him, that there would be one thing missing. One thing still unfinished, or beyond salvaging. Sam thought of his older brother, being a vessel for Michael. Surely if being Lucifer's chosen, if only for a couple of days, had killed Sam, and if Michael was every bit as powerful as Lucifer, if not more so, then what was left of Dean? Steeling himself, Sam finished the question. "... is Dean alright? After being possessed?"

"Yes, Sam," and Sam was surprised to hear a hint of longsuffering in God's voice, but it was coloured by amusement, like a father would speak to an over-inquisitive, nosy child. Which, Sam thought, he had always been. "Your brother was spared the damage normally associated with being used as a vessel for one of my archangels, as were all the others. With the Apocalypse mostly averted, and the demons either in full retreat or destroyed, there is no more need for the angels to inhabit human forms. But," and God raised one thin finger, "they will not simply be watchful, as they had been for the last two thousand years. It is clear that mankind forgets too easily the majesty and mystery of the divine essence from which all human beings stem."

"I thought you said no direct interference," Sam said, frowning. He watched as God digested the light jab, and he was not disappointed. Rather, he was startled by the genuine laugh that suddenly boomed from the simulation of a human being that God currently was. It was a sound as magical as hearing an actual voice, and seeing the unprecedented beauty that sat on the sofa right now. When He was done laughing, he shook his head.

"I will miss conversing with humans in such a way as this, Sam Winchester. Your brother was _as_ trying to My patience. Fortunately, patience is something I have in excess. And no, there will be no direct interference. But some things will change, from now on."

"So what is this decision that I'm supposed to make?" Sam asked. Again, the familiar feeling of paranoid dread set in, and yet again, he was proven wrong by what God said to him next.

"Your brother is at the cusp of a mental breakdown. He has your dead body by his side, and he is waiting for Me. And you. He asked to be taken to where you are, and I told him that it was out of the question."

"_What? _Why?" Sam asked, stunned, knowing full well that Dean was probably shattered. He had survived being Michael's vessel, clearly, but saying that to him... Sam had read, in Chuck's strangely disquieting renditions of their lives and escapades, what Sam's death had done to Dean, the first time around. And yet, Sam was staring God in the face – an actual face! – and from what he had heard, God was not cruel. He had given Sam more good news in one day – relatively speaking – than Sam had had in most of his life. Sam doubted that God would change His tune now.

"Back to the choice that is before you," God rose from the sofa, and Sam scrambled to do the same. It would feel awkward if he were to stay seated while _the Creator of all things_ – funny how that failed to get old, or less awe-inspiring, every time he thought about – stood waiting on him. He only received a slight twinkle in the eye from God at the gesture. "I cannot bring your brother here. He is not dead, and killing him is not an option."

"You can't, I dunno, 'transcend' him, or something?" Sam asked, puzzled.

"This is why you must decide, Sam. There are three choices for you to take." Sam listened carefully, wondering what exactly this could be. Choices for him and Dean, in the past, of this momentous-seeming import, were rarely good things. In fact, they caused the world to practically drop from its axis. Or set things in motion that always bit them in the ass, repeatedly, before throwing them to a veritable storm of anxiety, despair and recklessness. "The first choice is to remain dead. Your soul will not be cast into the pit," God said, noting Sam swallowing. Still, Sam was, again, tearing up; that was the one question he was too afraid to ask God directly: was his soul destined for the inferno? God shook His head, this time seeming a bit amazed, for some reason, that Sam could think such a thing. In fact, for a moment, God actually snorted. "Surely I would not present hell and eternal damnation as a voluntary choice, Sam Winchester," and Sam laughed, amazed by how _human_ and _humorous _God came across. Even if His humour represented a more refined version of someone like, say, Castiel's. "Your soul is yours, Sam, free of damnation and hellfire. Before you ask how, remember Who you're talking to." God winked – _He winked!_ – at Sam, who for some reason blushed and looked away, almost shyly. "But more than that, Sam, even as I play by the rules that I set in motion to govern these things, your soul is purified from all your transgressions. Simply because you acted selflessly, and sacrificed your very being to bring about Lucifer's downfall, and the chance for your brother and my beloved archangels to refute Lucifer's hold, and to save all of mankind. Such sacrifice is the stuff of legends, worthy of respect. And redemption." God didn't stop, even as Sam hugged himself and closed his eyes, trying his best not to laugh, cry and scream at the same time. To think that saying 'yes' to the devil would purify his soul. Then again, who would have known – apart from the angels and some higher-level demons – that killing Lilith would release Lucifer from his prison? Life was funny that way, was all Sam could think. "You will die, on Earth, and your soul will ascend, and be with Me, forever, in peace, love and release from all that you have suffered in your short lifetime. But Dean will remain, until such a time as he, too, dies, and his soul rises to join yours, and your loved ones'."

"Not sure I like that option," Sam admitted. The thought of being with mom, and dad, and Jess, filled him with more joy than he thought he could contain without exploding. But it was immediately brought low by knowing that choosing option number one would see Dean, languishing and pining away here, in a world that was almost completely destroyed. And without a single family member to take care of him, accompany him, simply _be with him_. It was too cruel, and Sam hoped the other options were friendlier.

"The second choice is this: I will send you back, to be with Dean. You will live in a post-Apocalyptic world, wracked by destruction and devastation. Hunting the remainder of the demons, and all evil things, as you've done all your lives. When you die, you will both come to be with Me." Sam pondered this. He almost shouted immediately that he wanted to do this. Rather be with Dean now, and live out their lives. Mom, dad and Jess were safe, in Heaven, where they belonged, and though Sam ached to see them again, to get to know his mother, for the very first time, really, he would rather be with Dean, in it until the end, and then go to their long-overdue rest, than let his brother spend his life alone. But there was one choice left.

"And number three?" he asked, licking his lips. Again, he was treated to a rare, beaming smile from God.

"Do you trust Me, Sam?" He asked suddenly. Sam frowned. How could he not?

"Of course I do," he said.

"Then I think you will definitely enjoy option number three even more. But," and God held up His finger once more, "I'm not going to tell you what it is. You will have to take it on faith." For a moment Sam was flabbergasted. _God was feeling mischievous_, he thought darkly, and reined the thought back, despite the knowing little grin on God's face that told him it wasn't the case. How could God ask this? It wasn't that Sam resented his faith being tested. It was strange, to find that God had a sense of humour.

"Can I at least... ask... if there's a happy ending?"

"I do not directly shape human lives as I see fit, Sam. Otherwise you and I would never have had this conversation, Lucifer would have been rotting for the eternity he is still destined for, and mankind would never have progressed beyond the Garden of Eden. In all likelihood, you and everyone who has ever lived for the last couple of millennia would not have existed. Happy endings are of your own making. What I will tell you is that the happy ending you want will be within reach, if you choose to have faith in the third choice."

"Blind faith," Sam muttered, peering into the distance as he mulled it over.

"Often the kind of faith that yields the most glorious results," God finished, smiling wide and knowingly. Sam sighed. He risked everything here, even his brother, on an action he had no inkling of what it would come out as.

"What about Dean? Doesn't he get a say in this?"

"Absolutely. And he's already made his decision."

"What did he decide?" Sam asked, taking a quick breath and holding it.

"To be wherever you are, even if it means he'll have to wait a while longer to be with you again." And that settled it for Sam. Taking a deeper breath, he jerked his head to one side before staring straight at God again. Choice number one was out of the question. No more waiting for Dean, no more torture, living alone and far away from the one person in the world he truly loved. _And who loves him right back_. Option two was tempting, and Sam knew it was the more salient between the first two. Option three was tricky. He desperately wanted to know what God had in mind for it, and for them. But God had proven to be everything Sam Winchester had dreamed of, in his most idealistic, hopeful dreams, and far more as well. He made his decision.

"I'll take number three on faith," he said. For the second time – and Sam thought that maybe, in this world, on this planet, in this life, it was the last time – he saw God smile wide and dissolve, His essence expanding and engulfing everything. Sam closed his eyes, bathing in the radiance that was the Creator, feeling for one single instant what it would one day be like for him to bask in that presence forever more. It filled him with unshakable hope, and the dawning knowledge that, whatever happened now, things would be... okay. Possibly better than.

"_Go with My love, forgiveness and blessing, Samuel Winchester. Until we meet again_..." and then the presence vanished, as did consciousness, all of it blanketed and blinded by deathless light and splendour, chased by rapture, shrouded by happiness. And, above all, excitement.

Suddenly Sam knew what was going to happen. And the realization made him laugh like never before.


	7. Know the rules, then break the rules

_Hey guys, thanks for all the amazing comments and compliments. You are all amazing! So, for your enjoyment:_

**CHAPTER 7: Know the rules, then break the rules**

_Ilchester, Maryland. 1972_

Azazel smiled, satisfied that he had put the fear of... well, never mind. The eight nuns seated so politely, almost shyly, in the pews behind him, would never know quite what hit them.

"So, uh, if any of you gals are the praying type..." he began, smiling happily at the blatant irony. Blink, and the homely brown eyes of the priest he was wearing switched to the iridescent, marbled yellow cat's eyes that was his signature visage. He hefted the knife in one hand, keeping it hidden from sight until he was ready. Which was now. Slowly, savouring the thrilling taste of carnage waiting to be unleashed, he began turning around.

He wasn't prepared for what he saw. Instead of quivering nuns, quaking in their ridiculous habits, he was faced by a man with spiky dark brown hair, piercing blue eyes and a stoic expression on stubbly cheeks that gave the demon pause. And he was wearing a suit and trench coat.

"You're not a nun," Azazel pointed out, snickering in what would have been seen as a good-natured priest-chuckle.

"Clearly," the mysterious man replied, voice not quite deadpan. Azazel frowned, hints of merriment still on his face, the sweet feeling of impending destruction by his hand still coursing through the possessed body. And then the frown turned to full-fledged horror, and Azazel reared back, appalled that his prior idea of descending the steps leading to an altar dedicated to Heaven was now substituted with the realization that said altar was keeping him from moving back further. Or running away.

"You are not allowed to do this! How did you find me?" Azazel snapped, doing his level best not to sound as afraid as he felt. The priest's whiny, pitiful voice was no help. Belatedly he realized the nuns were still there, but they were frozen, and not from shock. This was petrified-frozen, the kind that spoke of cosmic power interfering with time. Or placing select individuals outside of it.

"Prior notification," the blue-eyed man returned. Azazel slowly slid to one side of the altar, not taking his eyes off the man in front of him. The demon knew an angel when he saw one. Even if this particular specimen defied all the usual tells. For a start, this was no human vessel disguising the holy aspects of its angelic parasite. If Azazel focused, he could 'feel' the divine retribution emanating from this...shape, before him. How strange, he mused: an angel in a meat suit that wasn't actually a meat suit. The angel remained where he was standing, the gimlet gaze not leaving Azazel's face either.

"So _He's_ taking a hand, is that it?" Azazel sneered. It was hard _not_ to be a demonic dick about everything, and that included laughing in the face of danger, possibly death. With a sneers and baiting sarcasm. "That's against the rules."

"Rules He made, and rules He most certainly can bend, if the end justifies the means," the angel replied.

"And you call yourselves _just,"_ Azazel grated, twisting the word. "Where is the justice in this?"

"You imply that Heaven is bogged down by its own presets. Rules which your kind have never had a problem in exploiting for your own use, or side-stepping. Heaven is not impressed, so, in this instance, you are wrong."

"On what grounds?" Azazel challenged. He was almost to the edge of the altar now, and almost ready to duck and run. Ditch the priest meat and lie low for a while. This was definitely a crimp in the master plan.

"We know of _everything_, Azazel," the angel said, his voice devoid of emotion. _Except for the troubling little hint of annoyance, which, according to terrified whispers from demons fortunate enough to have seen an angel-demon encounter, was a prelude to destruction. Inappropriate, considering the viewpoint, that Heaven had a word for mayhem and carnage which only applied to _their_ actions: smiting. _"We know of your plans, to speak to Lucifer. We know you wish to free him. We also know how Lucifer will instruct you to proceed."

"Deloreans... bad form, unfair advantage," Azazel spat contemptuously, knowing he was moments away from finding out if he was powerful enough to face an angel. At least it wasn't an archangel, he thought blackly. _That_ kind of encounter was something _every_ demon feared, and with good reason. Luckily that particular brand of over-the-top firepower was nowhere in sight. Even so, very few demons, even ones as old and crafty as Azazel, would willingly go head-to-head with even the lowest-level soldier angels. Which this one probably was. The stoic expression and emotionless words spoke of that purpose, rather than counter-byplay and banter-before-death, usually associated with more powerful individuals. That this angel knew of their plans, and even the ones which Azazel himself didn't know, was 'slightly' troubling. Someone was messing with time, and even if demons could have accomplished swinging the temporal tango, they would have only done so with a lot of preparation. Evil with no direction only lasted so long, after all.

"No more talking," the angel said, and took a step forward. Azazel held up both hands as he executed a quick move away from the altar, finally, placing a lot more empty space around himself. Space to move, very quickly, in case things got too hairy.

"Whoa, whoa! Let's think about this, shall we? I mean come on; surely springing Lucifer from his cage is cause for celebration for all of you?" Azazel tried. The angel regarded him like a bird would a particularly fat, problematic worm. "This world has been ruined by humanity, and we can fix it! _He_ can fix it!"

"_He _will _fix it. _Not the _he_ you are thinking of, by the way. Your argument has been heard before," the angel said after a moment, while Azazel was slowly placing more distance between himself and the potentially lethal adversary confronting him. This was probably the part where the angel would try and smite him. Instead, the angel cocked his head askance, and an imperceptible little smile crossed his face. "The outcome of your efforts have already been witnessed, and prevented."

"_What?"_ Azazel asked, thrown for a curveball with that statement.

"After you've killed these eight devout believers, you will speak to Lucifer. He will instruct you to release Lilith from the pit, who will then set the plans in motion to free him," the angel listed. Azazel goggled, but it was merited. He himself hadn't known what Lucifer would have said to him. It had all been about hearing Lucifer's voice, receiving instructions. But of course the angels would know this... _already been witnessed, and prevented. _"And Heaven does not bargain with the filthy residues of tortured humanity, like yourself."

That was it. That was the cue. Azazel reared back as the angel reached for him. Up-chuck reflexes engaged and he roared free of the priest.

He got about halfway through the escape plan before he heard ancient Enochian reverberate through the convent, spoken with the surety of equally ancient prowess and power. This wasn't just a soldier angel, he realized, as he was catapulted fully back into the priest. Who fell backwards to land squarely on his ass, and was already scrambling on heels and hands to get away from the very resolute-looking angel. This was not working. _Damn it, he had a job to do! _Steeling himself, he got to his feet and began laying punches into the angel.

The angel danced back nimbly, dodging and weaving away from Azazel's punches, sidestepping neatly and with a precision that horrified the demon. He had heard the stories, seen – millennia back, or so it felt, when he was still fairly fresh in his demonic embodiment – the results of when demons went up against angels. Even the soldiers were fearsome, and there was no way to kill them, only expel them. Suddenly the angel's right hand closed against his throat, and the blue eyes shone with determination.

_No, not like this!_

Dredging up memories of all that he had been through, all that he had learned, Azazel recalled what he had been taught, if he should ever run across the divine powers that seemed to be completely indifferent to the plight of humanity, and equally uninvolved with things that transpired on earth. A spell, to punch the angel from its host.

"_Omnipotentis Dei, potestatum inv –"_ he began, the mention of the Holiest twisting his mouth and scalding his senses with the perversion of his utterance. But the angel's other hand balled into a fist and delivered a mind-numbing blow. To a human, of course, and Azazel was far more powerful than a simple human. Still, the blow snapped his mouth shut, broke his nose. A part of him was glad he didn't have to go through with casting the particular incantation. It was heavy-duty stuff, and he'd never done it before. _Never had a chance to_. Still, this was bad. Especially with the angel leaning in close, face still devoid of emotion, even if the words conveyed a very precise delivery of 'that was really stupid of you'.

"If I had a vessel, that might have worked," were the actual, grating words, and Azazel tried to shy away further from the angel. He screamed when the angel's other hand returned, this time in a vice-like grip on his forehead, the fingers splaying. He _felt_ the angel's power, felt it course from that immovable grip and into Azazel's vessel. It was fire, burning to expel him. More, to destroy him, utterly, as easily as a weapon like the Colt could. An end, even when death itself in most forms held no horror for something like Azazel.

Enraged by this unforeseen turn of events, Azazel fought back with every shred of his ability, pushing back. He barked a little laugh as he saw the angel frown in concentration, then finally felt the pressure release him from its grip. He sagged, almost exhausted, but he couldn't resist lording over his triumph. His survival.

"Was that as good for you as it was for me?" he jeered. The angel threw him backwards, his body breaking against the altar. Azazel rose to shaky feet, regarding the angel.

"A pitiful effort towards your famous last words," the angel replied, startling the demon. A bit humorous for one of these unfeeling beings, he thought.

"You already tried once," Azazel stated, shrugging. He was feeling a bit more confident now. "Were you not trying hard enough?" He was ready when the angel stormed him again. What he wasn't prepared for was the sudden jolt of pain he felt, coming from his chest. He looked down, frowning, shocked, at the haft of a dagger, sticking from his chest. _Right over his heart. And, by the feeling of it, _in_ his heart._ Light and energy crackled around the embedded blade, and Azazel felt himself weaken, with more than just fatigue. This was him being robbed of his senses, his abilities, his _being_. He knew it. And he knew the knife. He knew who had it. So, the future _had_ happened already, because Lilith would never have parted with it for just any reason. Ruin, ruin, everything was in ruin _because of one stupid angel!_

"My success in this matter was preordained," the angel whispered, and Azazel did not miss the satisfaction that rolled from the words.

"Others will pick up what I've left over!" Azazel rallied one last time, feeling oblivion explode in excruciating pain throughout his body. A final darkness was closing in.

"No, they won't," the angel replied, and it was the last thing Azazel heard before he left all possible worlds for the final time.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Castiel watched the light flare from the priest's eyes, watched Azazel get obliterated. He hadn't expected the demon to be powerful enough to resist the standard smiting, but all things considered, Azazel had always been craftier and more capable than he was given credit for. The angelic expulsion ritual should have been way above his pay grade, and yet the demon had somehow managed to begin rattling it off, even if it had discomfited him to do so.

He spared a moment for the priest, slumped in death before him. Yes, the knife killed most things, and it invariably killed the host. But this time, Castiel knew it would be different. With the eight nuns still petrified behind him, he raised his eyes heavenwards and prayed.

"Father, let Your infinite mercy be shown. Let Your unmatched Grace manifest. For what I have done, I beg forgiveness. Let not this death be seen as necessity." And then he waited. God had sent him here, to undo one thing that could immediately solve everything. The rest was a matter of faith, and Castiel had come way too far to give up on his faith in his Father at this stage. He trusted that, whatever God intended, it would be just, merciful, and above all, generous in its benefits.

Suddenly the priest jerked awake, taking in gulping breaths, and Castiel closed his eyes, letting his essence reach towards Heaven in praise and thanks. He looked down at the priest, who was staring at him with a mountain of terror oozing from every pore. Castiel smiled, this time with genuine compassion and concern, as he extended one hand to the priest. Who looked at it with zero enthusiasm.

"Don't be alarmed, child of My Father. I have come to deliver you."

"Deliver me?" the priest shuddered, then recalled what had happened, just a few hours back. _Diligently putting out the candles, meditating on the solace of being alone, conversing with God in the small hours of the morning. The black smoke, throwing wide the doors to this chapel and entering him, filling his thoughts with unimaginable horrors and visions of destruction, torment, hell... _"Is it..."

"I have expelled the demon from your body. It will trouble you no more," Castiel said. _It will trouble no one, ever again_.

"Are you an... an angel?" the still-shaking priest asked. He took the proffered hand and allowed Castiel to drag him to his feet, as awe washed across his face.

"Yes," Castiel said, then touched the priest's forehead with two fingers, freezing him as similarly as the nuns. Castiel sighed. His task was complete. The rest was up to God. But first...

The sound of wings gently disturbed the otherwise silent scene. Then priest and nuns unfroze from their induced state, staring around wildly, knowing that something happened, but not exactly what it was. The priest absent-mindedly rubbed a spot on his chest, right over his heart, wondering what had happened, recalling nothing of the last couple of hours.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

_Lawrence, Kansas. 1983_

He reappeared, nearly eleven years ahead of where he had been.

This was Lawrence, Kansas, and he was standing just outside a white house, in the middle of suburbia, beneath a tree on the front lawn, where no one would quickly pick out his presence. And he was invisible to prying eyes, so the point was moot.

_So this is where it happened,_ Castiel mused, taking in the sight. He focused on what was happening inside, easily picking up everything. Mary Winchester had just tucked six-month old Sammy into his cot, and Dean was leaning forward, saying goodnight with a kiss to his baby brother's forehead. At that moment, John Winchester leaned against the inside of the doorframe to Sammy's nursery, and Dean ran into his waiting arms as Mary smiled, first at the father-son duo, then at the newest addition to their happy family.

Castiel waited a couple of minutes for the happy gathering to disperse, off to bed, then willed himself into the house, still invisible, and approached the cot in the nursery. He looked down at the baby below him. Sam had just fallen asleep, his infant mind awash with so many unintelligible yet breathtaking colours and ideas that it made Castiel smile. Who would ever have thought that such a precious, beautiful thing could ever have become the person destined to be Lucifer's vessel?

"Not this time around," the angel whispered, and placed a hand on the baby's forehead. Sam didn't wake up from the touch. In fact, he seemed to grow even more restful, and Castiel smiled wider. "Let's give your parents one night's uninterrupted sleep for a change." _They'll have their hands full with you soon enough._ A mere thought, and he was inside Dean's room. The adorable four-year old lying there, limbs reaching in every direction, sprawled in the happy state that only a child could ever enjoy, was a far cry from the Dean Winchester Castiel had come to know and admire. Castiel placed a hand on Dean's forehead, just as he had with Sam, willing peace, comfort and contentment through the touch. "Your deeds will never be forgotten, even if you might never know that you accomplished them."

Castiel was next to Mary's bed, watching the beautiful mother of the two legendary Winchesters, quietly slumped in a pose of weary rest. Castiel could see everything of the two boys in her. Dean's fair complexion lay there, asleep, and Castiel could also sense the very best of her nature, and connect it with the idealism, compassion and selfless empathy for others, that Castiel had encountered in Sam's mind, even as the youngest Winchester had struggled through the worst of demon blood withdrawal, and after.

John Winchester had passed out in front of the television, slouched over the edge of the sofa as images from the screen flitted across his face. Strange to see him, so relaxed_, unaware completely of the horrors he had fought before_. In the father, Castiel saw Dean's strength and resolve; the very things that Heaven had sought for to host the archangel Michael. He saw Sam in John's cast, in the darker skin tones and angular features, even as he knew that Sam's multi-hued, changeable green eyes would stare at him from John's face, were the man to open his eyes right now. It was in these small, superficial things that Castiel could truly appreciate how well his Father had planned, when it had come down to the Winchesters, and people like them. It was as if He knew exactly what rested in every one of His children, waiting to be unleashed in His service, if the need arose. Sending a quiet prayer for the continued protection of all the Winchesters, Castiel left the Winchester home, and Kansas, and 1983, behind him.

_Alright, I changed my mind; chapter 8, coming soon! And it _will_ probably be the final one this time. Until then, hope everyone likes this. For now, I'll leave you with this little acronym:_

_TBC_


	8. For I have overcome the world

_There is a part of me that is simultaneously excited and a bit nervous, considering the awesome critique and pointers I've received. Hope the last chap passes muster! Thanks to all who read and commented, you are all made of gold and awesome!_

**CHAPTER 8: For I have overcome the world**

There was light streaming through the window.

It was the kind of golden light that you only saw on those rare days, like drowsy Sunday afternoons, where the world seemed to stand still and hold its breath, just so the person enjoying the moment could fully appreciate it. The moment was shot through with nothing beyond the slow glow of contentment and peace.

It was something Dean had never felt before, not in his life.

He blinked owlishly at the light, amazed at how it wasn't sharp, or painful. It was practically oozing softly through the room. Come to think of it, he had no idea where he was. If this was another Green Room incident, or so help him, if Zach was pulling another fast one, Dean was going to make sure a certain middle-management angel would _beg_ for something as 'unimaginative' as stage 4 stomach cancer.

And, as per usual, memory came in slow chunks, with all the driving force of an artillery shell. And almost as painful.

_He had been standing on the roof of a skyscraper, after he had finally said yes to Michael, sent Lucifer back to the pit and _spoken directly to God. _And Sam was lying there, dead, at his feet, and a world of pain and hurt was washed clean in one magnificent, symphonic maelstrom of holy, divine light._

"Sam?" Dean quested, voice muddled with sleep. He raised his head, and looked, really _looked_ at the room he found himself in. It was... not a crappy motel. It was comfortable; the mattress of the bed felt like one giant, soft and _relaxing_ orgasm. Comforters, pillows, duvets. No scratchy blankets or plague-bearing sheets. He raised himself up on his elbows, and his eyes, by now more alert and adjusted to his surroundings, scanned the floor. No ratty carpets. The rest of the room? Solid wooden cabinets, plush upholstered furniture and a non-nauseating, non-threatening colour scheme. The scan complete, Dean threw his legs to the side of the bed and placed his bare feet on the carpet, an involuntary little moan of delight escaping his lips as the soles of his feet touched the pliable textures of the flooring. "Well I'll be..." he began, and then he heard the flutter of wings. He looked towards the window, where a much more welcome angel had appeared. Dean frowned, for a moment wondering if this was a dream. For a start, Castiel was smiling. More than just smiling, the angel seemed on the verge of cracking up and laughing like a lunatic. Millions of smart-ass comments ran through Dean's head, but for some reason, he knew that throwing his usual Deanist curve balls resulted in Castiel frowning. And the grinning angel really cheered Dean up right now.

"Where have _you_ been?" Dean asked, and Castiel took a step closer. _Since the final battle, and Michael, and Lucifer, and..._

"One final task," Castiel replied simply, even his gravelly voice seemingly permeated with barely contained mirth.

"One final task?" Dean queried, frowning slightly. He waited for Castiel to fill in the blanks, but some things didn't change, and Castiel was still a klutz when it came to the more nuanced give-and-take byplay that most humans did as easily as breathing. The angel remained there, grinning like an idiot. "Seriously dude, enough with the mystery crap! We won, didn't we? I mean I spoke to your boss, He's a nice guy, very sharing..." Okay, so maybe it was just too much in Dean's nature to deviate into sarcasm to get a response. Even when Castiel managed to miss the point _completely_, every time. "_For God's sake, get on with it!"_ Dean snapped, finally, expelling his impatience.

"I will not bore you with the details, Dean."

"Then why are you practically splitting your head in half with a really creepy smile?" Dean fired back. Castiel's lips closed, but the smile remained in place. He lowered his head and looked at Dean from below the brows, sapphire blue eyes twinkling.

"I am... elated, at my Father's mercies. What He has wrought... it is for all of these things that I've held on to my faith, even when the others didn't," the angel replied.

"Great, self-validation. Awesome, I'm happy for you" Dean snarked. He got to his feet, sighing again at the small pleasures he had seemingly lost sight of long ago. He snorted. Yeah, carpets. Who'd have thought they could be so damn... pleasurable? "What happened? After me and God had a talk?"

"My Father has returned to Heaven," Castiel ventured, practically gushing. "He has restored what the host and the demons have undone, and He is –"

"Cas, I swear, if you don't tell me right now, _in a straight answer, _what I need to know, I will..." Dean sighed. He couldn't really be angry with Castiel. Who was he to deny his only real friend among the angels the pleasure of having his faith rewarded and restored? Hell, Dean knew he too would be voluble to the point of irritation if something like that happened to him. He'd be the first person yelling 'I told you so!' to every last bastard that dared tell him otherwise.

Castiel seemed unfazed by Dean's moodiness. Or he was completely sympathetic, because a chuckle escaped the normally taut lips.

"You made a choice when you spoke to God," the angel said.

"Yeah, I told Him I wanted Sam back. He said no. I think I had a cry," Dean sniped testily, not in the mood to think about everything that had happened, or to personally tell Castiel how the great Dean Winchester had practically begged and moaned like a little bitch before God told him what would happen. Without giving out specifics, in typical 'moves in mysterious ways' style. Maddening. "Then white light, and now I'm in the soft, glowing-fluffy-edges end of a Hallmark movie."

"Sam also made a choice." Dean quieted at Castiel's words. All thoughts of scorn and ridicule fled from his mind, and he found himself hanging on Castiel's every word, staring at the angel as though he were suddenly made of cheeseburgers. "God also spoke to your brother."

"Where is Sam, Cas?" Dean asked, slowly, with the measured tone of voice reserved for someone about to be crushed in a devastating bear hug, or simply crushed. Castiel sighed.

"Dean, perhaps if you let me finish, for once, you'll hear exactly what you've been waiting for," the angel said.

"Then no more Jedi-Vulcan double-speak," Dean snapped. "_Where. Is. Sam_?" Castiel shook his head ruefully. Of course it would be this way. The angel of the Lord looked down at the ground momentarily, then back at the expectant and soon-to-be-furious hunter before him.

"God deemed that your brother would not be damned for his part in everything that led up to and into the false Apocalypse," Castiel began. "His soul was... salvaged, prior to him saying yes to Lucifer. This allowed God to redeem him and cleanse him completely from the demon blood." The angel paused, looking at Dean, who gave no indication that he was going to interrupt. Stymied by the lack of response, yet pleased by the lack of interruptions also, Castiel continued. "But it was God's Will that he not return to life."

"And yet he seems to be close by," Dean pointed out, hoping against hope and holding out for the possibility that he, Dean Winchester, was alone again. Missing the inflection – as per usual – Castiel nodded.

"Your brother _is_ close by." _Oh God, Sammy. You made it! _We_ made it! _Dean stormed past the angel, but Castiel blocked his way and held up placating hands when Dean's expression turned stormy.

"Get out of my way, Cas," the hunter threatened in a low voice. The angel pursed his lips, sighed and shook his head.

"Dean, I must warn you –"

"I get it, things might not be the way they were before. Whatever!" Dean snapped. _I don't care, I'm alive, Sam's alive, the world is still in one piece, and I'm so not in the mood for your cryptic crap right now!_ Dean ducked around Castiel and placed a hand on the doorknob. He turned it when the angel spoke again, and the mirth was back in his voice.

"Things _are_ different. And they _will_ be different."

"Didn't I tell you not to speak in circles?" Dean challenged, and this time, Castiel barked a chuckle.

"Just go, Dean," the angel said, and with a whisper of heavenly wind and wings, he was gone. Dean smirked and ducked out the door.

The rest of the house seemed as cosy and comforting as the room had been that Dean woke up in. He didn't care, though, rushing past small stands with photos, and ignoring the rest of the decor. He had one thing running through his mind right now, and it was the same thing that had run through his mind ninety percent of his life. _Find Sam, take care of Sam, make sure he's safe._ Down the stairs and up to the front door. Okay, _find Sam_ was still in the cards, but Dean doubted his little brother would get far. He was so fired up with anticipation he could barely walk normal. He felt like bouncing around on his feet. _Where are you, kiddo? Hiding from your very anxious big bro should be a sin, you know –_

"Dean." Dean paused and closed his eyes. How could he not revel in that simple utterance of his name, at the remembered shade of familiarity that had dogged and fulfilled his whole life? Shoulders slumping with relief, Dean Winchester turned around.

There were already tears in Sam's eyes when Dean turned around. But instead of rushing each other, they simply took in the sight of one another, as if it were the cusp of a dream state, and neither of them wanted to make a move, in case it was about to end. Dean mused immediately on how utterly chick-flick the moment was, but he smiled slowly. How many times in the past have they been through this stuff? How many times would he be confronted by his little brother, who wore his heart on his sleeve, doing this?

How many of those times were the tears ones of happiness?

"Hey there Sammy," Dean replied simply, his grin widening. Through the tears, Sam suddenly smiled as well, a beaming, radiant grin that was every bit as powerful as the dreaded puppy eyes, if not more – how often did tears of joy get taken out for a spin? And, in keeping with everything that was just so _Sam_, Dean was not the first to break that pristine, never-to-be-repeated moment. With just a few strides, Sam closed the distance between them and enfolded Dean in his arms. And for once, the older brother didn't break the moment from his side. He simply let it roll over him, taking joy in it, as he reciprocated and folded his arms around Sam. And it was complete that way, the two brothers meeting at the end of the conflict that had consumed their lives, had demanded everything from them, even life itself twice over. Dean gloried in the quiet, almost painfully beautiful elation that edged on hysterical tears, even as he closed his eyes and let the fragments of moisture slip from beneath his lids. He was just holding on for dear life, not caring that Sam was in full swing, sobbing his heart out on Dean's shoulder even as the youngest was shaking with barely contained laughter. And Dean couldn't help it, because it had always been that simple for him: laugh and laugh well, because if you couldn't laugh, all you would have left was tears. So he laughed. It grew from a strange snorting sound, moving through a chuckle and then into a full-fledged belly laugh. It didn't take long before Sam was right there with him, laughing through the tears.

After several awkward, heart-wrenching, epically entrancing moments, they disengaged, treating each other to the once over. _Just no telling with angels and demons. Or God..._

"So, how was Lucifer?" Dean asked, trying desperately to lighten the mood even if, for once, he had enjoyed the chick-flick just as much as Sam usually did.

"I dunno, did you ask Michael?" Sam replied, voice still quivery. He accentuated the repartee with a sly grin, even though he could still barely see through the moisture in his eyes. He hastily wiped the heel of one hand across his eyes, sniffing as he did. Dean's head shook with more suppressed amusement, and he regarded his little brother for a moment, at that instant not compelled to participate in more gushing and gooeyness. Sam looked well. Better than okay, come to think of it. He seemed completely at ease, for once, with none of those instantly recognizable tells that could always, in the past, scream volumes of what was going on inside. Despite the tears and the mauled appearance of someone just finished with a traumatic, cathartically emotional spell, Dean realized that he had, in fact, never seen Sam this _alive_. Not _ever_. This was Sam with no troubled past, no demon blood, no guilt or enforced 'suck it up' playing through his head. It filled Dean with awe, and pride. He hoped he looked the same, because damn it, Sammy would never let him live it down!

"You look good, kiddo," Dean said finally, deciding what the hell! Sam replied with one of those longsuffering, take-it-then-leave-it smiles, the ones he always reserved for things that ended on a high note.

"So, you're not mad at me?" Sam asked, and Dean shook his head slowly.

"Sam, next time you say yes..." Dean began, not really feeling angry, but finding instead that he was moved to concern, "just... don't."

"_Someone_ had to save the day!" Sam quipped, causing Dean to roll his eyes. "Right back at you, by the way."

"Bitch!" Dean said, adding some extra oomph to the name.

"Jerk," Sam fired back. They stood in silence for some moments, not wishing to break the easy camaraderie, but realizing the awkwardness setting in. Sam sighed. "So, you spoke to Him?"

"Yeah. Nice guy, actually. With a bedside manner like that, He _must_ be busy all the time," Dean joked. "So, what's this choice you made? Cas made it sound _very_ mysterious." Dean raised both hands and mimicked a gesture of apprehension.

"You spoke to Cas?" Sam queried. Dean nodded.

"Bastard's around here somewhere. Either he's getting his jollies from watching this feely-fest, or he's waiting for me to yell at him again." Dean's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't another 'ten years of bliss, and then hellfire' gig again, was it?"

"You think God would give anyone the choice of eternal damnation?" Sam snorted derisively, remembering his chat with the Lord of Heaven. Dean smirked, conceding the point. "No, He gave me three choices."

"Three? Jeez, no wonder the guy's out of service when you need Him; supply is high, but the demand is even higher. So spill."

"I stay dead, go to Heaven and be with mom, dad and Jess. You... you would have stayed here." Dean didn't miss the cloud of pain that crossed Sam's face, even if it was only a momentary break from the still-there elation. Nor did he ignore the jab of pain in his chest at the thought of that. _And the intense, almost destructive surge of love and gratitude for his brother, for not making that call. _"Number two was me coming back, and you and I do the hunting thing until we die, however that happens."

"Option two would have been... acceptable," Dean said, giving a little step sideways and tracing one finger across the small table standing beneath a mirror. But he knew there was more. "And?"

"I come back, and that's it," Sam finished, expelling a heavy breath.

"_That's it_?" Dean demanded, frowning heavily now. "Just like that? What, the Impala outside, Cas on his way to deliver more orders, that kind of 'it'? C'mon Sammy, that's hardly a reward for –"

"... don't know what I was thinking. That shade would never have gone with the dining room..." Both Winchester boys stared at each other, frowning, as a female voice reached them from outside the house. Dean's eyes widened, and he looked around the house frantically, finally recognizing it now that the primary objective was satisfied.

"The dining room is fine just the way it is," a male voice added with good-natured amusement. Sam and Dean watched the front door, which was rattling with the sound of keys being used. When the door opened, both boys stared in mute shock at the sight before them.

"Mom?" Dean began.

"Dad?" Sam was close to tears again.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Castiel stood outside the house.

It was the same house he had visited, sixteen years ago, but older, more lived-in, more comfortable. _But this time, there was no fire, no demon, no intricate plan played out from both sides, focusing on two pivotal figures. _As he waited, overjoyed and filled with happiness at the 'reunion' taking place inside, he couldn't help but wonder if this had been the right course of action to take. But who was he to question the Will of Heaven?

"Question away, beloved son, if you wish." Castiel closed his eyes, moved beyond words to describe at what he felt, hearing His voice.

"Such a loss, to have done so much, and to have it wiped clean," the angel said.

"Wiped clean? Not at all," God supplied, as He took up station next to the angel, towering over the more diminutive heavenly being beside Him. "What they have done will never be forgotten. And what if the Gospel of Winchester never sees the light of day? So what if these two never did what they did, here, in _this_ reality?"

"Father, will they remember?" Castiel asked. It was a given that the Gospel, which would have been a critical element in the true Apocalypse, was now nonexistent. What need for a narration of prophecy on matters that had never occurred? A prophecy that was consecrated, even though, in retrospect, it was divinely misguided?

"For a while longer, the memory will be fresh. It is easy to reshape these things, child, but the people involved... therein lies the challenge." As if reading Castiel's mind, God snickered and added, "Even for Me, Castiel. Even for Me. You cannot remake existence without taking some licence, without contravening the very essence of makes humans... human." Castiel frowned. Surely _God_ did not aim blind, or act on a hunch?

"But the archangels..."

"Are... doing penance for losing faith, and forcing My hand," God stated simply. "Castiel, it will help if you think of it in these terms: there have been many false starts, across many realms, through many realities and possibilities. This one, arguably, came closest to fruition, but it played out no less spectacularly than expected."

"This was premeditated?" Castiel asked, awed, and he looked God full in the face. He found nothing but compassion there, along with a slight hint of calculation that spanned limitlessly beyond his ability to follow. He knew he could never know just what His Father thought, would never know the unimaginable depths and heights of power and its righteous use that the Lord of Hosts commanded.

"Whenever the need arises, the right people will be there to make sure things go as they should. This is what Lucifer could not and never will comprehend, beloved son of Mine. This is why he could never grasp in love what he sought to destroy in hate. What even my most powerful children sometimes fail to perceive." God turned His head askance, allowing Him to look at Castiel in turn. "Some of my angelic children are more astute, and invariably recognize this thing that I have endowed humanity with." Castiel wracked his brain for an answer, and was amazed when he found it, and quite easily too.

"Divinity," he whispered, awed. "You gave them divinity." God nodded, smiling with pleasure.

"Yes, I gave each of them a part of Myself. What they lack in your powers, Castiel, humans make up for in resilience. Where their strength fails them, their hope sustains them. Where hope fails, there is faith, which in humans is unparalleled by even the archangels. You, of all my angelic children, should know how hard it is to hold on to faith, when you were not suddenly aware, one day, aware of yourself, and My presence, partaking of Me as easily as you would your brothers and sisters. Each of these beautiful, flawed, reckless, dangerous, passionate, kind beings that you call human, grow up knowing nothing of My true being, having never seen what they believe in. For just one such irrational and emotional being to make the choices of faith, taking that leap and trusting in Me, is glorious to an extent that very, _very_ few of you have ever experienced, or will. Not as you are."

Castiel pondered these words, running them through his mind. He could not contain the absolute awe and honour he felt, receiving revelation from the very throne of majesty and existence _Himself_. He had always felt that humanity was worth far more than the simple, dismissive comments his brothers and sisters have made, bordering on heresy. That God entrusted him, a lowly soldier angel, with such knowledge, filled him with a desire to fall to his knees and praise his prodigal Father, until the daylight was enhanced with the full, rapturous unfolding of holy power, breaking free from its human form. And beautiful as it was, he needed to _know_.

"Father, if not Dean and Sam Winchester, then who? Who will be there when the Apocalypse comes preordained, as it will?"

"Whoever needs to fill that space, when that time comes again, will step up the plate," God replied simply. Castiel, caught up once more in the realization that he would never be able to comprehend even a fraction of his Father's Will, nodded. He would take it on faith, knowing that God knew _something_, but it was not something that Castiel needed to know. Sighing, he looked back at the house, listening to the sounds from within. Listening to a family reunited beyond natural means, a family that now existed where, before, it never had a chance.

"So in time, they will forget?" God nodded.

"This time was given for them to say goodbye, to remember that they were once part of something truly extraordinary, and to realize that they lost nothing of what has gone before, but rather that it will become an unconscious part of them, even as they settle into the normalcy so long denied them. And no, there will be no relapses. Just this once, we play both sides, and let them have both worlds, if but for a few hours, before the actual memories fade, and even the subconscious, instinctive drive to 'hunt' fades into oblivion."

"This does not contravene their free will in the matter?" Castiel asked.

"Not in this instance. It was not hard for them to consent, because there are no ulterior motives at play. Would you consent willingly to have four decades of damnation erased from your mind, in exchange for nothing more than being normal? Would you agree willingly to wipe clean a demonic taint that has cursed your actions from before you could even _utter_ words of consent? The loss of your one true love? The realization that normal is out there, and within reach, no turning back, and no unwelcome visitors from days past, reminding you of what you've sworn off?" Castiel didn't have to answer. He had been as near as human as made little difference, and he could grasp, with a more-than-human and yet human mind, how critically important these things were. Especially with this family. "The balance has been restored. Gateways have been closed, doors have been sealed. We are in the run for the true Apocalypse, my son. And though these incredible beings have done so much, so selflessly, for so many people, they are worthy of living a life that requires less sacrifice, and offers more than thanklessness and despair."

"Heaven on earth," Castiel breathed, everything finally making sense. For a while, the two beings were silent, simply standing there, invisible, outside a house that had been earmarked for sorrow, and would now blend in with all the other houses. What was greatness, remembrance and reputation, when all you wanted was to be safe, and content? Others would have sacrificed everything to achieve any of the former, but Castiel doubted such second-guessing was taking place in the house right now. He breathed out, and with that simple act came one final realization.

It was over.

"What happens now?"

"In general, or with you and the Winchesters?" God asked, and it was impossible to miss the almost sly cant of His query. Without waiting for an answer, God continued. "They will have their life, as it was meant to be. John never lost Mary, and Sam never lost Jessica. Dean..." God smiled wide, "... has the most leeway here. His potential now is limitless – he can be and do whatever he wants to be. He has that option, now." God sighed with longsuffering. "To play with life, with consciousness and free will, is never done lightly." The implication stood, and Castiel could not miss it. He did not care to try and figure out just how far-reaching this restoration had been, how many people it touched, how many lives it altered. He did know that, even though an eternal rest in Heaven, surrounded by all who have gone before, as well as dearly departed loved ones, was a more fitting payment for the services offered by Sam and Dean Winchester. And yet, just the knowledge that God bestowed this unique gift, which sent far-flung ramifications to all corners of creation, _simply for these two brothers_, was mind-boggling in its generosity, and unknowable in its execution. But whatever happened, Castiel knew that God had shown His mercies, and had shown them to those who deserved it most.

"As for you, my ever-true child, I also have a gift. Truly, you remained loyal, even when you ran the risk of losing everything that made you what you are. Your sacrifice is worthy of praise in Heaven. I think you know what this gift is." Castiel did know, and he realized he did not want it. No, for once, he was willing to rest in the safety of what he was, and to whom he answered. Bowing his head, he spoke.

"Father, though I appreciate this gift, I would ask that You take it from me. I... I am a soldier of Heaven, and even in peace, soldiers are needed. I do not wish to leave Your service. The gift of humanity is more than I can hope for, but I will not forsake You for my own desires, or hopes." Castiel waited for disapproval, but he should have known, after millennia of service, even when he could not see the Creator's face, or feel His presence, that God's mercy was indeed infinite.

"Then watch over them, Castiel. No harm will come to them, but you have leave to observe the fruits of a handiwork you too had an immense part in shaping." Castiel nodded again, scarce able to hide his relief. He was forgiven of his perceived transgressions, restored to his full status, and God Himself had commanded this. He knew that there would be no more interference from his or Heaven's side. No more talks, conversations or chats with the two Winchester boys. But, also implied, was the final chance to say goodbye. He looked expectantly at God, who nodded, before Castiel vanished, giving the boys a few more hours to enjoy their restored parents.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

When Castiel reappeared at the Winchester home in Lawrence, it was already close to dusk.

He decided, for once, not to pull the appear-disappear trick that neither Winchester had seemed to grow used to. Or like. Instead, he walked up to the front door, composed himself and knocked.

Mary Winchester answered the door. She was still gorgeous, despite her advancing years, and the fading beauty of youth. What attracted Castiel to her was the way her eyes crinkled and laughed, even when her face was smooth. The fine wrinkles, crow's feet and gray strands of hair amidst the lush blonde only heightened her beauty, rather than take from it. It was the beauty of a life lived, Castiel noted, and sent another thank you to his Father.

"Can I help you?" she asked politely.

"I'm looking for your sons, Mrs Winchester," Castiel said, effecting his warmest tone of voice. Dean had often told him not to _try_ and act human, but rather to let his vessel's instincts and reactions guide him. It was practically impossible, but Castiel knew true joys again, for the first time in ages, and letting his emotions overflow into his inflections was much easier than normal, this time. He actually thought that his warmth was truly convincing and real.

"They're upstairs with their father," Mary said, then rolled her eyes. "Men and furniture. It's a trial, I can tell you that. Would you like to come in?"

"No, that will be fine. I'll wait outside for them," Castiel replied, then nodded politely when Mary departed. Moments later, he heard Sam and Dean come trotting down the stairs. Only when their steps halted and they closed the front door behind them did Castiel turn around. Dean nodded, a frown marring his face. It was already becoming harder for them to disengage their real life from the fleeting images of their former life, this much Castiel could see. Sam too seemed to do a double-take, before recognition flooded his face again, and he grinned. Castiel was about to give a formal greeting when the youngest Winchester enfolded him in a hug, accompanied by a snicker from Dean.

"Some things won't ever change," the older brother snorted. Sam ignored him and clapped Castiel on one shoulder as he broke the hug.

"How've you been, Cas?" Sam asked.

"I have been restored, my transgressions forgiven," Castiel returned amiably. "I have come to say goodbye."

"Whoa, what?" Dean interrupted, taking a step forward. "Goodbye? As in..."

"Yes. As you no doubt realize, your memories of what happened before are fading. It took you both a moment to recognize me, for example. This is nothing to be alarmed at. Your choices placed you here, and there will be no going back." He watched this sink in on them, not intending the pronouncements to sound so dire, and yet happy to see that neither of them seemed to interpret them as such. "I represent a past part of your life. A life you both will no longer remember, soon. But I needed to say that... I was... _am_, grateful, and honoured, to have served and served with you both." Both men stared at the angel as though they couldn't believe what they were hearing.

"So this is your reward, huh?" Sam asked. "You get duty, and we get..." he looked away, at the yard around them, the trees and the house behind them. _We get everything we wanted._

"I was allowed the choice to fall. To become fully human, to live a life as one of you, and to ascend to Heaven's fields as a human soul. But I do not wish to leave my Father's service. Now, more than ever, I wish to stay."

"You're just drunk on all that new power," Dean quipped, receiving an elbow in his side from Sam. He grimaced and treated his younger brother to a death stare, which Sam studiously ignored by fixing on the angel again. Knowing there was little else to say, Sam looked down, swallowed and extended his right hand. He looked meaningfully at Castiel, recalling the day he had first met the angel, and the callous typecast the angel had labelled him with. This time, Castiel smiled, took Sam's hand in his own and once again placed the other over it.

"Farewell, Sam Winchester. May your life be blessed, and full, and normal." Sam smiled slightly at the last word. Castiel turned to Dean, who was watching him with a pained expression. Then he moved in and hugged the only angel he ever really trusted, much to Sam's wry amusement.

"Have a great one," Dean whispered hoarsely, voice growing emotional. He disengaged, gave a too-hard clap to Castiel's shoulder and forced a grin. "Now that you have some free time, try and have a little fun. Hook up for some angel cake, while you're at it." Castiel only smiled. It was hard to say goodbye, he realized, when they weren't just empty words spoken to the air, but also invested with a mountain of shared experiences. There was no need to state the obvious: that he would miss Dean's banter, his strength and his resolve. Even his struggles, which had been absolutely enlightening for an unfeeling angelic being. Or that he would miss Sam's triumphs, even in the face of immense adversity, or his kindness and his empathy.

"So, what happens now? When you go poof, I mean," Dean said.

"Right now, you'll go inside, and be with your mother and father. Later, you will go and fetch Jessica from the bus station. Sam will go back to California, and Bobby will be coming to Lawrence for a few weeks to help out your father. Life will go on," Castiel said.

"Bobby?" both Winchesters asked, stunned, then burning on to elation. Dean was the first to draw up and look at Castiel, but before either Winchester could react to the sudden realization of the angel's forced farewell, Castiel raised both hands, lightly touched them both on their foreheads, and vanished from their knowledge altogether, even though he was still standing right in front of them. Sam looked at Dean, who shrugged, before both of them turned around and went back inside. Castiel waited until the door closed, then looked up at the sky, turning rosy as night began falling. "Be of good cheer, Dean. Angels truly are watching over you all." And with that simple, unrequited parting, Castiel vanished. There was a certain man from Pontiac, Illinois, who missed his wife and daughter terribly, and who also deserved a chance at normal once more.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

"I _did_ ask her," Sam said by way of apology. "She still needs to do a few things before next week."

"If she so much as _sniffed_ in the general direction of my baby, I will..." the threat went unfinished as Dean slid behind the wheel of the Impala, and Sam got in next to him. Jessica had opted for a bus to the airport, rather than join them in the Impala. Dean turned to his brother. "Everything packed?"

"Yeah," was all Sam said, then waved at their parents, standing on the front porch, fingers and arms intertwined as they waved their sons goodbye. "Dad gave you the week off?"

"He knows I need a break, and Uncle Bobby will help him out." Dean said. "'sides, when was the last time you and I went road tripping together?"

"I get carsick, Dean," Sam sighed. "So, never."

"You think that's normal?" Dean challenged, eliciting a bark of laughter from Sam. He started the Impala up. "Hey, you don't need to go lawyering right away, do you?" Sam shrugged, puzzled.

"The firm only needs me back next Wednesday."

"I say we hit the Grand Canyon," Dean said, pulling the Impala out of their parents' driveway and speeding off, with both boys waving out the window. Dean reached for the box of tapes behind his car seat, pulled one out and popped it into the cassette player. Sam merely rolled his eyes, his iPod useless in his hands. "And Hollywood."

"Whore."

"Baby!"

"Aww, c'mere you jerk!" Sam cackled and reached for Dean's cheek. Dean angrily swiped the hand away and jerked his head back.

"Hands off, bitch!" Sam kept laughing for some time, and Dean smiled despite himself, as they left Lawrence and headed out west for Palo Alto, and everything in between.

High above them, wings outstretched to their fullest, surrounded by the light of Heaven and the grace of God, Castiel hovered in his true form, looking down and smiling. The angel followed, amused as he heard Dean go on about how much of an adventure crappy motels, pay-per-view and seedy small-town joints were going to be, much to Sam's horror and offended sense of refinement, but also his good-humoured chagrin.

Truly, Castiel had thought, Father had wrought well, both in the beginning and the end, with these Winchesters.


End file.
